"Well, drat Maria's whims," retorted Fletcher impatiently; "they
can wait, I reckon, and Will's got to have his tea, so you'd
better fetch it."

"But I don't want it, grandpa," protested the boy, flushed and
troubled. "You worry me so, that's all. Please stop fooling with
those curtains. I like the sunshine."

"A nap is what he needs, I suspect," observed Carraway, touched,
in spite of himself, by the lumbering misery of the man.

"Ah, that's it," agreed Fletcher, catching readily at the

suggestion. "You jest turn right over and take yo' nap, and when
you wake up well, I'll give you anything you want. Here, swallow
this stuff down quick and you'll sleep easy."

He brought the medicine glass to the bedside, and, slipping his
great hairy hand under the pillow, gently raised the boy's head.

"I reckon you'd like a brand new saddle when you git up," he
remarked in a coaxing voice.

"I'd rather have a squirrel gun, grandpa; I want to go hunting."
Fletcher's face clouded.

"I'm afraid you'd git shot, sonny."

With his lips to the glass, Will paused to haggle over the price
of his obedience.