at he was in a measure personally responsible for
his condition, since he had, surreptitiously, in the night, mixed two or
three medicines of his own brewing with the liberal dose of a different
drug which the night nurse gave him, in accordance with her instructions.

Far from being unconscious, however, Uncle Israel was even now raging
violently against further restraint, and demanding to be sent home before
he was "murdered."

"He's being killed with kindness," whispered Dick, "like the man who was
run over by an ambulance."

Harlan arranged for Uncle Israel to stay until he was quite healed of this
last complication, and then wrote out the address of Cousin Betsey Skiles,
with which Dick was fortunately familiar. "And," added Dick, "if he's
troublesome, crate him and send him by freight. We don't want to see him
again."

Less than a week later, Uncle Israel and his bed were safely installed at
Cousin Betsey's, and he was able to write twelve pages of foolscap, fully
expressing his opinion of Harlan and Dick and the sanitarium staff, and
Uncle Ebeneezer, and the rest of the world in general, conveying it by
registered mail to "J. H. Car & Familey." The composition revealed an
astonishing command of English, particularly in the way of vituperation.
Had Uncle Israel known more profanity, he undoubtedly would have
incorporated it in the text.

"It reminds me," said Elaine, who was permitted to read it, "of a little
coloured boy we used to know. A playmate quarrelled with him and began to
call him names, using all the big words he had ever heard, regardless of
their meaning. When his vocabulary was exhausted, our little friend asked,
quietly: 'Is you froo?' 'Yes,' returned the other, 'I's froo.' 'Well
then,' said the master of the situation, calmly, turning on his heel, 'all
those things what you called me, you is.'"

"That's right," laughed Dick. "All those things Uncle Israel has called
us, he is, but it makes him a pretty tough old customer."

A blessed peace had descended upon the house and its occupants. Harlan's
work was swiftly nearing completion, and in another day or two, he would
be ready to read the neatly typed pages to the members of his household.
Dorothy could scarcely wait to hear it, and stole many a secret glance at
the manuscript when Harlan was out of the house. Lover-like, she expected
great things from it, and she saw the world of readers, literally, at her
husband's feet. So great was her fa