“That’s so,” said Budge. “I guess it ’pends on what kind of medicine we’ve got. We might make him some nice pills out of soap.”
“I know,” said Toddie, going into the closet, bringing from a corner an old winter cloak trimmed with beads, and picking some of the beads from it; “these is splendid for pills. I took some of ’em de uvver day when I wazsh playin’ doctor an’ sick boy too, an’ dey didn’t taste bad a bit.”
“All right,” said Budge, “pick some off.” His order was obeyed, and soon the beads were being carefully dropped, one by one, down the dog’s throat, Budge opening the animal’s mouth with finger and thumb as he had seen his father do. Soon, however, the dog’s jaws closed tightly.
“I want to make him well,” said Toddie. “I ain’t doctored him a bit yet.”
“Well, I hardly know what you can do for him,” said Budge, “for he won’t take any more pills. Perhaps there’s a sore place on his head somewhere that you might put a stickin’-plaster on; but you haven’t got any plaster. Oh, I’ll tell you what; you can get a postage-stamp out of Uncle Harry’s desk—that’ll do for a stickin’-plaster first-rate.”
“I wantsh to wock him,” said Toddie, “’ides doct’rin’ him.”
“I’m afraid ’twon’t be best to move him just now,” said Budge, scanning the face of the patient with solicitude.
“I tell you what,” said Toddie, with the air of a man to whom had come a direct inspiration “letsh stop makin’ b’lieve for a minute, till I get hold of him; den he can be made into a sick boy again.”
“All right,” said Budge, though evidently against his will. “I s’pose I’ve got to, so that all the doctors get a chance at him. But say, papa says, mixin’ doctors kills sick folks. Don’t you think we’d better talk it all over again? ’Twould be dreadful if Uncle Harry’s dear little dog was made dead, you know.”
“All right,” said Toddie, “an’ I’ll hold him while we talk about it. I won’t give him a single bittie of medshin ’til we know dzust what he ought to have.”