But Bill had turned to the storekeeper. "We've got to git doin'. I've heerd a heap in Spawn City. Anyway, it was bound to git around. What he's said don't matter a heap. What I've heerd tells me we've got to git busy quick. We've got to clean you out of--stuff, or ther's goin' to be a most outrageous unhealthy time on Sufferin' Creek. We'll fix things to-morrer. Bein' Sunday," he added grimly, "it'll be an elegant day fer settin' things right. Meanwhiles, I'll ast you to fix me a parcel o' them physics, jest some of each, an' you ken git Sunny Oak to pass 'em right on to Zip fer his kids. Guess they'll worry out how best to dose 'em right." Minky nodded, but his eyes were gloomily watching the two strangers sitting under the window. Sandy, however, suddenly brightened into a wide smile. "Sure," he cried delightedly, slapping his thigh in his exuberance. "That's it. Course. It's all writ in the reg'lations fer raisin' them kids. Gee! you had me beat clear to death. Physic ev'ry Saturday night. Blamed if this ain't Saturday--an' t'-morrer's Sunday. An' I tho't you was sufferin' and needed physic. Say--" But Bill, too, was watching the strangers with interested eyes. He was paying no sort of attention to this wonderful discovery of his bright friend. CHAPTER XXI SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS Scipio's impulses were, from his own point of view, entirely practical. Whatever he did, he did with his whole heart. And if his results somehow missed coming out as he intended them, it was scarcely his fault. Rather was it the misfortune of being burdened with a superfluous energy, supported by inadequate thought. And he felt something of this as he sat in his living-room and glanced round him at the unaccountable disorder that maintained. It was Sunday morning, and all his spare time in his home on Saturday had been spent in cleaning and scrubbing and putting straight, and yet--and yet--He passed a stubby hand across his forehead, as though to brush aside the vision of the confusion he beheld. He knew everything was wrong, and a subconscious feeling told him that he had no power to put things right. It was curious, too. Every utensil, every stick of furniture, the floor, the stove, everything had been scrubbed and garnished at a great expense of labor. Everything had been carefully bestowed in the place which, to his mind, seemed most suited for its disposal. Yet now, as he gazed about him at the result, he knew that only a cleanly untidiness prevailed, and he felt disheartened.