"Oh! Now I'll tell you what it is, my good b'y—"
"Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that's what."
"If you sass me, I'll box your young ears—an' that's what!"
"I don't think!" added Spike. "Nobody ain't goin' t' box me. I'm a sure enough invalid, and don't you forget it."
"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "a bit of a hole in his arm, that's all."
"Well, I wish you got it, 'stead o' me—it smarts like sixty!"
"Shows it's healin'. Doctor said as it'll be well in a week."
"Doctor!" sniffed Spike, "he don't know what I suffer. I may be dyin' for all he knows."
"You are!" sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.
"Eh—what?" exclaimed Spike, sitting up.