“Here!” Jerry protested.  “She’s burnin’ up with fever.  You blanket ’em when they’ve got chills.”  Gently he removed the covers from Rouletta’s throat.

Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by silently pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in.  Jerry promptly elbowed him aside and pulled it lower.  Tom made an angry gesture, and for a third time adjusted the covers to suit himself, whereupon Jerry immediately changed them to accord with his ideas.

Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners argued the matter.  They were glaring at each other, they had almost come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his watch.  Swiftly he possessed himself of the medicine-glass and spoon; to Tom he whispered: 

“Quick!  Lift her up.”

Linton refused.  “Don’t you know anything?” he queried.  “Never move a sick person unless you have to.  Give it to her as she lays.”

“How you goin’ to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin’ down?” the other demanded.

“Easy!” Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men bent over the bed.

But Linton’s hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to Rouletta’s lips he spilled its contents.  The girl rolled her head restlessly.

“Pshaw!  She moved.”

“She never moved,” Jerry contradicted.  “You missed her.”  From his nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision which so sorely tried his partner’s patience.  “You had a fair shot at her, layin’ down, Tom, and you never touched her.”

“Maybe I’d have had better luck if you hadn’t jiggled me.”

“Hell!  Who jiggled—?”

“’Sh—­h!” Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud.  “If you’ve got to holler, go down by the rapids.”

After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient had doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine, so Tom replaced the glass and spoon.  “I’m a little out of practice,” he explained.

“I thought you done fine.”  Jerry spoke with what seemed to be genuine commendation.  “You got it into her nose every time.”

Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry’s turn to command silence.

“Why don’t you hire a hall?” the latter inquired.  “Or mebbe I better tree a ’coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want to.  Family man!  Huh!” Linton bristled aggressively, but the whisperer continued: 

“One head of children don’t make a family any more ’n one head of heifers makes a herd.”

Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache.  Leaning forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful countenance opposite him.  “D’you mean to call my daughter a heifer?” he demanded, in restrained fury.

“Keep them whiskers to yourself,” Jerry snapped.  “You can’t pick a row with me, Tom; I don’t quarrel with nobody.  I didn’t call your daughter a heifer, and you know I didn’t.  No doubt she would of made a fine woman if she’d of grown up, but—­Say!  I bet I know why you lost her.  I bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that she drownded.”  Jerry giggled at this thought.