LITMIR.BIZ

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out. Weary said yuh was playin’ big luck, if yuh only knew enough t’ cash in yer chips at the right time, but he’s afraid yuh wouldn’t be watching the game close enough an’ ud lose yer pile. I don’t know what he was drivin’ at, an’ I guess he didn’t neither. It’s too bad, anyway. I guess yuh didn’t expect t’ wind up in bed when yuh rode off up the hill. But as the sayin’ is: ‘Man plans an’ God displans,’ an’ I guess it’s so. Here yuh are, laid up fer the summer, Dell says—the las’ thing on earth, I guess, that yuh was lookin’ fer. An’ yuh rode buckin’ bronks right along, too. I never looked fer Whizzer t’ buck yuh off, I must say—yuh got the name uh bein’ sech a good rider, too. But they say ‘t the pitcher ‘t’s always goin’ t’ the well is bound t’ git busted sometime, an’ I guess your turn come t’ git busted. Anyway—”

      “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.

      The Old Map knocked the ashes out of his pipe and went in to look at him.

      “Did Weary say I got bucked off?” demanded the sick man before the Old Man was fairly in the room. “If he did, he lied, that’s all. I didn’t think Weary’d do me dirt like that—I thought he’d stand by me if anybody would. He knows I wasn’t throwed. I—”

      “Here, young fellow,” put in the Old Man, calmly, “don’t yuh git t’ rampagin’ around over nothin’! You turn over there an’ go t’ sleep.”

      “I’ll be hanged if I will!” retorted Chip. “If Weary’s taken to lying about me I’ll have it out with him if I break all the rest of my bones doing it. Do you think I’m going to stand a thing like that? I’ll see—”

      “Easy there, doggone it. I never heard Weary say’t yuh got bucked off. Whizzer turned over on his head, ‘s near as I c’d make out fer dust. I took it he turned a summerset.”

      Chip’s befogged brain caught at the last word.

      “Yes, that’s just what he did. It beats me how Weary could say, or even think, that I—it was the jack rabbit first—and I told her the supply was limited—and if we do furnish lots of amusement—but I guess I made her understand I wasn’t so easy as she took me to be. She—”

      “Hey?” The Old Man could hardly be blamed for losing the drift of Chip’s rapid utterances.

      “If we want to get them rounded up before the dance, I’ll—it’s a good thing it wasn’t poison, for seven dead kids at once—”

      The Old Man knew something about sickness himself. He hurried out, returning in a moment with a bowl of cool water and a fringed napkin which he pilfered from the dining-room table, wisely intending to bathe Chip’s head.

      But Chip would have none of him or his wise intentions. He jerked the wet napkin from the Old Man’s fingers and threw it down behind the bed, knocked up the bowl of water into the Old Man’s face and called him some very bad names. The Countess came and looked in, and Chip hurled a pillow at her and called her a bad name also, so that she retreated to the kitchen with her feelings very much hurt. After that Chip had the south room to himself until the Little Doctor returned with Johnny.

      The Old Man, looking rather scared, met her on the porch. The Little Doctor read his face before she was off her horse.

      “What’s the matter? Is he worse?” she demanded, abruptly.

      “That’s fer you t’ find out. I ain’t no doctor. He got on the fight, a while back, an’ took t’ throwin’ things an’ usin’ langwidge. He can’t git out uh bed, thank the Lord, or we’d be takin’ t’ the hills by now.”

      “Then somebody has it to answer for. He was all right when I left him, two hours ago, with not a sign of fever. Has the Countess been pestering him?”

      “No,” said the Countess, popping her head out of the kitchen window and speaking in an aggrieved tone, “I hope I never pester anybody. I went an’ done all I could t’ cheer ‘im up, an’ that’s all the thanks I git fer it. I must say some folks ain’t overburdened with gratitude, anyhow.”

      The Little Doctor did not wait to hear her out. She went straight to the south room, pulling off her gloves on the way. The pillow on the floor told her an eloquent tale, and she sighed as she picked it up and patted some shape back into it. Chip stared at her with wide, bright eyes from the bed.

      “I don’t suppose Dr. Cecil Granthum would throw pillows at anybody!” he remarked, sarcastically, as she placed it very gently under his head.

      “Perhaps, if the provocation was great enough. What have they been doing to you?”

      “Did Weary say I got bucked off?” he demanded, excitedly.

      The Little Doctor was counting his pulse, and waited till she had finished. It was a high number—much higher than she liked.

      “No, Weary didn’t. How could he? You didn’t, you know. I saw it all from the bluff, and I know the horse turned over upon you. It’s a wonder you weren’t killed outright. Now, don’t worry about it any more—I expect it was the Countess told you that. Weary hated dreadfully to leave you. I wonder if you know how much he thinks of you? I didn’t, till I saw how he looked when you—here, drink this, all of it. You’ve got to sleep, you see.”

      There was a week when the house was kept very still, and the south room very cool and shadowy, and Chip did not much care who it was that ministered to him—only that the hands of the Little Doctor were always soft and soothing on his head and he wished she would keep them there always, when he was himself enough to wish anything coherently.

Chapter XII. “The Last Stand”

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      To use a trite expression and say that Chip “fought his way back to health” would be simply stating a fact and stating it mildly. He went about it much as he would go about gentling a refractory broncho, and with nearly the same results.

      His ankle, however, simply could not be hurried or bluffed into premature soundness, and the Little Doctor was at her wits’ end to keep Chip from fretting himself back into fever, once he was safely pulled out of it. She made haste to explain the bit of overheard conversation, which he harped on more than he dreamed, when his head went light in that first week, and so established a more friendly feeling between them.

      Still,

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