he say he would? Do you want me to die like a dog? Where's Tom?"

"He is at the bank, Uncle Joe," said Mrs. Bingle patiently. "Now, try
to be quiet, we'll have the doctor here as quickly as possible."

"I don't want any of your half-grown doctors, Mary, understand that. I
want a real one. I'm a mighty sick man, and--"

"You'll be all right in a day or two, Uncle Joe," said she soothingly.
"Don't worry, you poor old dear. Drink this."

"What is it?"

"Never mind. It's good for you. Take it right down."

Uncle Joe surprised himself by swallowing the hot drink without
further remonstrance. His own docility convinced him beyond all doubt
that he was a very sick man.

"Send for Tom," he sputtered. "Send for him at once. He ought to be
here. I am his uncle--his only uncle, and he--"

"Now, do be quiet, Uncle Joe. Tom will be here before long. It's
Saturday, you know--a half holiday at the bank."

She sat down on the edge of the bed and gently stroked his hot
forehead. For a short time he growled about the delay in getting the
doctor to the apartment; then he became quietly watchful. His gaze
settled upon the comely, troubled face of Tom Bingle's wife and, as he
looked, his fierce old eyes softened.