it would be fun, but afterward, oh, she wouldn't do a thing like that!

"Don't you bring Dunk in here," warned Chip, "or things might happen.
I don't want to run up against him again till I've got two good feet
to stand on."

Their relation was a thing to be watched over tenderly, since Chip's
month of invalidism. Dunk had notions concerning master and servant,
and concerning Chip as an individual. He did not fancy occupying the
back bedroom while Chip reigned in his sunny south room, waited on,
petted (Dunk applied the term petted) and amused indefatigably by
the Little Doctor. And there had been a scene, short but exceeding
"strenuous," over a pencil sketch which graphically portrayed an
incident Dunk fain would forget--the incident of himself as a would-
be broncho fighter, with Banjo, of vigilante fame, as the means of
his downfall--physical, mental and spiritual. Dunk might, in time,
have forgiven the crippled ankle, and the consequent appropriation
of his room, but never would he forgive the merciless detail of that
sketch.

"I'll carry easel and all into the parlor, and leave the door open so
you can hear what they all say," said the Little Doctor, cheerfully.
"I wish Cecil could be here to-day. I always miss Cecil when there's
anything especial going on in the way of fun."

"Yes?" answered Chip, and made himself another cigarette. He would be
glad when he could hobble out to some lonely spot and empty his soul of
the profane language stored away opposite the name of Dr. Cecil Granthum.
There is so little comfort in swearing all inside, when one feels deeply
upon a subject.