A crowd began to follow me around and make remarks, and perty soon old Mrs. Coots, that’s always messing in wherever anybody’s sick, came and stood right in front of me. “Plunk Smalley,” says she, “what ails you? Be you out of your head?” “No, ma’am,” says I, and tried to get past. “He is,” says she to the crowd, “but a-course he don’t know it. Most likely he’s had some sort of a knock on the head, or maybe he’s comin’ down with gallopin’ typhoid. Here, you Plunk, lemme feel of your head.” “I hain’t needin’ no medicine,” says I, for I seen her feeling in her reticule. Mostly she carried the meanest part of a drug-store in there, and just ached to give it to somebody. She was never so happy as when she was shoving some kind of medicine into a person that was worse to take than it was to have whatever disease was the matter with you. I tried to dodge her, but she caught hold of me. I tried to jerk away, but she yells for somebody to help her, and about a dozen sprung forward to give a hand, well knowing that nothing was wrong with me, but having a mean desire to get in on a joke. “Pore leetle feller!” she says to me. “Jest feel of his forehead. Like fire, that’s what it is. I’ll bet his temper’choor is more ’n a hunderd and fifty. We got to git him in bed quick, with some ice on his stummick, or maybe he’ll be passin’ away right on our hands.” “Stummick!” says I. “Nothin’ the matter with my stummick.” “It don’t matter,” says she. “I was readin’ in a book that you ought to pack folks in ice when they got fever. And it’s my experience that when a boy is sick it’s all due to his stummick; so we’ll just pack your stummick, Plunk. ’Twon’t be pleasant, but it’s for your good.” I’ve noticed that most things that’s for your good is doggone unpleasant. By this time there was a big crowd around, calling out things and laughing fit to split, and I’ll bet the band was mad as anything because nobody was paying any attention to them. Bands likes to have folks listen and admire them, I’ve took note. Maybe I could have broke away and run for it, but I’d made a promise and I was going to stick it out, so I looked up at Mrs. Coots and begun to sing a lullaby to my doll. “Jest listen!” says she. “Hain’t it pitiful? Maybe it hain’t no disease,” says she, “but that he’s gone out of his head permanent. Come to think of it, I been afraid somethin’ like that would happen to him. He hain’t never acted quite _right_. I’ll bet he’s been crazy right along, only we hain’t took particular note. Crazy folks is sly,” says she. “How long you been wantin’ to parade around with a doll and sing to it, Plunk?” “I never wanted to,” says I, “but I _got_ to.”