"What ails him?" Mostyn cried, aghast, turning to Hilda, who had risen, thrown on a wrapper, and stood at the table, where a bottle and a spoon lay.
"I think he's got er little bit er fever, sir," she said. "It is his stomach gone wrong ergin. I'm givin' 'im his fever-mixture now."
"It hurts right here, Daddy." Dick made a wry face as he bravely pressed his hand on the lower part of his right side. "Dick couldn't play to-day."
"How long has he had fever?" Mostyn demanded, sharply.
"Jes' to-day, I think, sir. I never noticed it till dis evenin' about an hour by sun. He's been complainin' of his stomach fer mo'n a week, but dat is 'cause he eats—"
"It may be something serious." The words shrank back from utterance. "Why didn't you send for the doctor?"
"Huh!" the nurse sniffed, resentfully. "Yo' all expect me ter ten' ter everything. I did tell his grandpa, but he didn't even know what I was talkin' about, jabberin' all de time about Miss Irene stayin' off so long, en—en I don't know what all—you an' yo' doin's 'long wid de rest."
The woman was approaching with the bottle and spoon. "Don't give him any more of that stuff." He waved it away. "I'll send for Dr. Loyd at once."
"Oh, Daddy, I don't want the doctor!" Dick began to whimper and cling more tightly round his father's neck.
"He won't hurt you; he is a good man," Mostyn said, tenderly. "He will give you something to make you cool off, so you can sleep."