"I didn't get bucked off," broke in Chip, angrily. A "bronch fighter"
is not more jealous of his sweetheart than of his reputation as a rider.
"A fellow can't very well make a pretty ride while his horse is turning
a somersault."

"Oh, well, I didn't happen t' se it--I thought Weary said 't yuh got
throwed off on the Hog's Back. Anyway, I don't know's it makes much
difference how yuh happened t' hit the ground--"

"I guess it does make a difference," cried Chip, hotly. His eyes took
on the glitter of fever. "It makes a whole heap of difference, let me
tell you! I'd like to hear Weary or anybody else stand up and tell me
that I got bucked off. I may be pretty badly smashed up, but I'd come
pretty near showing him where he stood."

"Oh, well, yuh needn't go t' work an' git mad about it," remonstrated
the Countess, dropping her thread in her perturbation at his excitement.
The spool rolled under the bed and she was obliged to get down upon her
knees and claw it back, and she jarred the bed and set Chip's foot to
hurting again something awful.

When she finally secured the spool and resumed her chair, Chip's eyes
were tightly closed, but the look of his mouth and the flush in his
cheeks, together with his quick breathing, precluded the belief that
he was asleep. The Countess was not a fool--she saw at once that fever,
which the Little Doctor had feared, was fast taking hold of him. She
rolled her half yard of "edging" around the spool of thread, jabbed the
hook through the lump and went out and told the Old Man that Chip was
getting worse every minute--which was the truth.