“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”

“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—­it smarts like sixty!”

“Shows it’s healin’.  Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”

“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer.  I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”

“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.

“Eh—­what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.

“So am I—­we all are—­by the minute.  Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home!  So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”

“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling.  “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”

“It’s th’ truth.”

“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”

Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.

“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now.  I’m hungry.”

“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”

“But—­Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”

“Sure!  Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”

“Oh, fudge!  What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”

“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.

“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily.  But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.

“You ain’t such a bad old gink—­sometimes,” he conceded.

“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.

“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”

“Can I?”

“Sure!  Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”

“Is that so?”

“You bet it is—­honest Injun.”

“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—­”

“It ain’t!”

“Well, what is it?”

“How d’ ye know I want anything?”

“Oh, I just guess, maybe.”

“Well, say—­if you could cop me one o’ Geoff’s cigarettes—­one o’ them with gold letterin’ onto ’em—­”

“You mean—­thieve you one!”

“Why, no, a cigarette ain’t thievin’.  Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I’m jest dyin’ for a gasper!”

“Well, you go on dyin’, an’ I’ll set right here an’ watch how you do it.”

“If I was t’ die you’d be sorry for this, I reckon.”

“Anyway, I’d plant some flowers on you, my lad, an’ keep your lonely grave nice—­”

“Huh!” sniffed Spike, “a lot o’ good that ’ud do me when I was busy pushin’ up th’ daisies.  It’s what I want now that matters.”

“An’ what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—­good ‘n’ heavy.  Discipline’s your cryin’ need, an’ you’re sure goin’ t’ get it.”

“Oh?  Where?”

“At college!  My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C’lumbia—­”

“Sure you can think; thinkin’ can’t cut no ice.”

“Anyway, you’re goin’ soon as you’re fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so.”