"Geeve her som' bat' hon de lake," advised Dave, before disappearing in search of certain herbs for which he had found a use.
Mrs. Crane, feeling that Mabel had been sufficiently punished for her thoughtlessness without being scolded, hastily prepared a hot meal—after all, she had saved Mabel's share of the pie. Then, while Mrs. Crane was setting a place for her, the culprit, escorted to the lake by Jean and Henrietta, was thoroughly scrubbed, rubbed dry, and hustled into clean clothing.
"Hurry!" cried Mrs. Crane, "or the stew will get cold again."
Just as Mabel was opening her mouth for the first delicious bite, a brown, sinewy hand deftly placed a dingy tin cup at her lips, her head was unexpectedly twitched backward, and before Mabel could realize what was happening, Dave had poured a generous dose of his evil-smelling herb tea down her unresisting throat.
"Ah'm learn dose good trick off ma gran'modder," explained Dave, evidently much elated at his success. "Ma gran'modder ver' smart ol' squaw."
"I wish," choked Mabel, crimson with indignation, "your horrid old grandmother 'd never been born."
"Som' tam'," smiled Dave, sympathetically, "Ah'm used for weesh dat, too. But dose medicine ees ver' good—mak' you feel all bully hon top your inside, bam-bye. Maybe you lak' som' more, hey?"
"You go home!" snapped Mabel. "I'll taste that stuff for a year."
Dave chuckled as he slipped away. And, however dreadful it looked and smelled and tasted, the medicine at any rate did no harm; for Mabel awoke next morning none the worse for either the prolonged soaking, Dave's unpalatable remedy, or even an unusually large portion of Mrs. Crane's famous pie.