"I'm packing Maria's clothes now," she said, "but I'll be through in a jiffy, and then I'll make the soup. I've jest fixed up the parlour for the marriage. Maria insists on having a footstool to kneel on--she ain't satisfied with jest standing with jined hands before the preacher, like her pa and ma did before she was born." "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. "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 better man. Why, thar's Jim Weatherby; he'll do first rate." "His dogs are setters," fretted Will. "I don't want him; I want Christopher Blake--he saved my life, you know." "So he did, so he did," admitted Fletcher; "and he shan't be a loser by that, suh," he added, turning to Carraway. "When you go over thar, you can carry my check along for five hundred dollars." The lawyer smiled. "Oh, I'll take it," he answered, "and I'll very likely bring it back."