Sunday Morning.
My fears are verified. Every boy on the place is scratching; and I too have an irresistible impulse in that direction.
Sunday Night.
All my family in quarantine with the itch, and I myself experiencing all the agonies. I think it is King James who says, "The Itch is a disease well worth the having, for the satisfaction afforded by scratching"; but I am forced to dissent from the royal opinion. And the cure,—the being swathed for days in lard-and-sulphur—is almost as bad as the disease. Worst of all is the thought that for a week I shall not see Nucky.
Sunday, a week later.
The boys and I were released from quarantine to-day, and I ran to the hospital the first thing. Nucky looks much better, and is gaining strength at a normal rate. He is much troubled, however, because Blant has not been to see him again. "I know things is wrong on Trigger,—I am afeared Todd is at his devilment again," he said.
I left after promising to spend the afternoon with him, and went with the other boys to church. Geordie and Hosea were late dressing, and were left to follow. What was my astonishment, when they did walk in, to see Geordie wearing Hosea's fine new overcoat he brought from home after Christmas,—a coat spun, dyed, woven and made by his mother. Hosea wore the shiny, too-large one which we had given Geordie from the barrels. During service Geordie, with hair plastered down and eyes on the ceiling, sang hymns more loudly than ever.
"Why do you wear Hosea's overcoat?" I demanded, as soon as we were out in the road.
"Him and me's swapped," he replied, carefully avoiding the word "traded"; "I never wanted to do it, did I, Hose?"
"Why was it done, then,—you seem to have decidedly the best of the bargain."