"And how do _I_ know who your Tom is?" roared the physician. "There's _my_ Tom;" and he pointed to a monstrous gray cat that sat on an oak chest watching the boy with green-glaring eyes; "and if he should mistake you for a thieving gopher some fine morning, and eat you up alive, small loss would it be to the world, I'm thinking!" "He's my brother!" timidly interposed Charley, keeping to the question. "Your brother! Well, old hunter, what do you say to that?" said the doctor, stroking his disagreeable pet: "that dirty-faced, uncombed, ill-dressed ignoramus of a boy claims you for a relative. Do you realize the honor, eh?" "I mean that _our_ Tom is my brother," explained Charley, bursting into tears. The doctor, softened by his distress, asked more gently,-- "But hasn't your Tom any other name?" "No, sir," answered the boy. "Well, what is _your_ name?" "Charley." "Charley what?" "Charley Jones." "O, I see! you belong to the Jones tribe; not much matter if all their heads were blown off. But what do you want of me?" "Mother wants you to come right down quick, and make Tom well." "What! after his head's blown off? That's a job, anyhow. Nice-looking young man he'd be--wouldn't he? going round, well as ever, without any head on his shoulders. But I see how it is: his head isn't all gone--just a trifle left--enough to grow another with;" and the doctor, now in good humor, succeeded in drawing from the lad an intelligible account of the accident, and mounting his horse, with saddle-bags behind him, and a tin pail in his hand, he proceeded to a well-to-do settler's, and narrating the accident with nearly as much exaggeration as did little Charley, he added, with an emphatic jerk of his collar, "I'll fix the fellow up so that he'll be as good as new." He then begged some yeast, and a roll of cotton batting, and, repairing to the Joneses, covered Tom's face with the cotton dipped in the yeast, and returned to his loggery. Whether the application was in accordance with the _Materia Medica_ of orthodox practice or not, after a short time the pain subsided, and Tom dropped into a peaceful sleep; seeing which, Mrs. Jones went about her morning's work with a thankful heart. The children had had nothing to eat as yet, and now that their brother's moanings had ceased, they realized that they were hungry. "Tan't I have my supper?" sobbed Bub, clinging to his mother's dress as she walked. "'Tisn't supper; it's breakfast!" answered Bob, giving the child a push, which helped him cry the louder. "Cry-baby cripsy," mocked Bob, making ugly faces at the little fellow; for fasting had made Bob quarrelsome.