"Aw, shut up!" admonished Cal.

"Come on, Chip," sang out Weary. "You can spoil good paper when you
can't do anything else. Come and size up the look on Dunk's face when
we take possession of all the best chairs and get t' pouring our incense
and admiration on the Little Doctor."

Chip took the cigarette from his lips and emptied his lungs of smoke.
"You fellows go on. I'm not going." He bent again to his eternal
drawing.

"The dickens you ain't!" Weary was too astounded to say more.

Chip said nothing. His gray hat-brim shielded his face from view,
save for the thin, curved lips and firm chin. Weary studied chin
and lips curiously, and whatever he read there, he refrained from
further argument. He knew Chip so much better than did anyone else.

"Aw, what's the matter with yuh, Splinter! Come on; don't be a chump,"
cried Cal, from the doorway.

"I guess you'll let a fellow do as he likes about it, won't you?"
queried Chip, without looking up. He was very busy, just then,
shading the shoulders of a high-pitching horse so that one might
see the tense muscles.

"What's the matter? You and the Little Doctor have a falling out?"

"Not very bad," Chip's tone was open to several interpretations. Cal