“What's the matter? You and the Little Doctor have a falling out?” “Not very bad,” Chip's tone was open to several interpretations. Cal interpreted it as a denial. “Sick?” He asked next. “Yes!” said Chip, shortly and falsely. “We'll call the doctor in, then,” volunteered Jack Bates. “I don't think you will. When I'm sick enough for that I'll let you know. I'm going to bed.” “Aw, come on and let him alone. Chip's able t' take care of himself, I guess,” said Weary, mercifully, holding open the door. They trooped out, and the last heard of them was Cal, remarking: “Gee whiz! I'd have t' be ready t' croak before I'd miss this chance uh dealing old Dunk misery.” Chip sat where they had left him, staring unseeingly down at the uncompleted sketch. His cigarette went out, but he did not roll a fresh one and held the half-burned stub abstractedly between his lips, set in bitter lines. Why should he care what a slip of a girl thought of him? He didn't care; he only--that thought he did not follow to the end, but started immediately on a new one. He supposed he was ignorant, according to Eastern standards. Lined up alongside Dr. Cecil Granthum--damn him!--he would cut a sorry figure, no doubt. He had never seen the outside of a college, let alone imbibing learning within one. He had learned some of the wisdom which nature teaches those who can read her language, and he had read much, lying on his stomach under a summer sky, while the cattle grazed all around him and his horse cropped the sweet grasses within reach of his hand. He could repeat whole pages of Shakespeare, and of Scott, and Bobbie Burns--he'd like to try Dr. Cecil on some of them and see who came out ahead. Still, he was ignorant--and none realized it more keenly and bitterly than did Chip. He rested his chin in his hand and brooded over his comfortless past and cheerless future. He could just remember his mother--and he preferred not to remember his father, who was less kind to him than were strangers. That was his past. And the future--always to be a cow-puncher? There was his knack for drawing; if he could study and practice, perhaps even the Little Doctor would not dare call him ignorant then. Not that he cared for what she might say or might not say, but a fellow can't help hating to be reminded of something that he knows better than anyone else--and that is not pleasant, however you may try to cover up the unsightliness of it.