Motherwell said coming into
the room, having heard Pearl's excited tones.
"It's Arthur, ma'am. Come out and see him. You'll see
he needs the doctor. Ginger tea and mustard plasters
ain't a flea-bite on a pain like what he has."
"Let's give him a dose of aconite," Tom said with
conviction; "that'll fix him."
Mrs. Motherwell and Pearl went over to the granary.
"Don't knock at the door," Pearl whispered to her as they
went. "Ye can't tell a thing about him if ye do. Arthur'd
straighten up and be polite at his own funeral. Just look
in the crack there and you'll see if he ain't sick."
Mrs. Motherwell did see. Arthur lay tossing and moaning
across his bed, his letter pad and pencil beside him on
the floor.
Mrs. Motherwell did not want Tom to go to Millford that
night. One of the harvesters' excursions was expected--was
probably in--then--there would be a wild time. Besides,
the two-dollar bill still worried her. If Tom had it he
might spend it. No, Tom was safer at home.
"Oh, I don't think he's so very bad," she said. "We'll
get the doctor in the morning if he isn't any better.
Now you go to bed, Pearl, and don't worry yourself."
But Pearl did not go to bed.
When Mrs. Motherwell and Tom had gone to their own rooms,
she built up the kitchen fire, and heated a frying-pan
full of salt, with which she filled a pair of her own
stockings and brought them to Arthur. She remembered that
her mother had done that when her father was sick, and
that it had eased his pain.
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