“What made me?” Uncle William paused, looking about him. “Where’s my spectacles? Must ’a’ left ’em in there.” He disappeared once more.
While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising it while he drank.
The artist took his time—in slow, surprised sips. “It’s good!” he said. He released the cup slowly.
Uncle William nodded. “I’ve been overhaulin’ your locker a little.”
“You didn’t find that in it.” The artist motioned to the cup.
“Well—all but a drop or two,” said Uncle William, setting it down. “A drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make ’most anything tasty, I reckon. I’ll go out and stock up pretty soon.”
A slow color had come into the artist’s face. He turned it away. “I don’t need much,” he said.
“No more’n a robin,” said Uncle William, cheerfully; “but I can’t live on bird-seed myself. I reckon I’ll lay in suthin’—two-three crackers, mebbe, enough to make a chowder.”
The young man laughed out. “I feel better,” he declared.
“It’s a good pill,” said Uncle William. “Must be ’most time for another.” He pulled out his great watch. “Jest about.” He doled out the pill with careful hand.