"But I want it," he insisted; "and I want a pack of hounds, too,
to chase rabbits."

"Bless my boots! You ain't going to bring any driveling beasts on
the place, air you?"

"Yes, I am, grandpa. I won't swallow this unless you say I may."

"Oh, you hurry up and git well, and then we'll see--we'll see,"
was Fletcher's answer. "Gulp this stuff right down now and turn
over."

The boy still hesitated.

"Then I may have the hounds," he said; "that new litter of
puppies Tom Spade has, and I'll get Christopher Blake to train
'em for me."

The pillow shook under his head, and as he opened his mouth to
drink, a few drops of the liquid spilled upon the bedclothes.

"I reckon Zebbadee's a better man for hounds," suggested
Fletcher, setting down the glass.

"Oh, Zebbadee's aren't worth a cent--they can't tell a rabbit
from a watering-pot. I want Christopher Blake to train 'em, and I
want to see him about it to-day. Tell him to come, grandpa."

"I can't, sonny--I can't; you git your hounds and we'll find a