"I guess not as much as it would be to HER," the father said, a rough tenderness in his voice, and something else which Tillie vaguely felt to be a note of pain.
"Are you havin' the Doc in fur her, then?" his wife asked.
"I guess I better, mebbe," the man hesitated. His thrifty mind shrank at the thought of the expense.
He turned again to Tillie and bent over her.
"Can't you tell pop what's hurtin' you, Tillie?"
"No—sir."
Mr. Getz looked doubtfully and rather helplessly at his wife. "It's a bad sign, ain't, when they can't tell what's hurtin' 'em?"
"I don't know what fur sign that is when they don't feel nothin'," she stoically answered, as she dished up her Frankfort sausages.
"If a person would just know oncet!" he exclaimed anxiously. "Anyhow, she's pretty much sick—she looks it so! I guess I better mebbe not take no risks. I'll send fur Doc over. Sammy can go, then."
"All right. Supper's ready now. You can come eat."