"You can borrow mine," laughed Mabel. "My gray sweater would fit you splendidly."
"He'll need it, too," said Mrs. Crane, "when he sits up to-morrow. That is, I think I'll let him sit up to-morrow—he hasn't had a scrap of fever for quite awhile."
"Perhaps," suggested Mabel, "Dave's medicine really did cure him. Did you taste it, Billy?"
"Once," said Billy, "but I don't know when, I drank something like red-hot coals, flavored with tobacco and vinegar and ink—was that it?"
"Yes," laughed Mabel, "that must have been it."
"There's a queer taste in my mouth yet," declared the boy. "It's all puckered up—like choke-cherries."
"I guess you'd better run along, Mabel," advised Mrs. Crane, noting that the boy's eyes, in spite of his best efforts, were closing wearily. "He doesn't stay awake very long at a time."
"Good-by," said Mabel, cheerfully.
"Come again," breathed the boy, sleepily.