t home, and Uncle Peter's temperature came
down about ten degrees, while his respiration began to sit up and
notice things.

During the rest of the day every friend and relative Uncle Peter
had in the world rushed in, suggested a couple of prescriptions,
and then rushed out again.

Aunt Martha tried them all on Uncle Peter.

Before the shades of evening fell that day Uncle Peter was turned
into a human medicine chest.

And to make matters worse, he took some dogberry cordial and it
chased the catnip tea all over his interior from Alpha to Omaha.

Then Aunt Martha gave him some hoarhound candy to bite the
dogberry, so it would leave the catnip alone, but blood will tell,
and the hoarhound joined with the dogberry and chased the catnip up
Uncle Peter's family tree.

But it cured the cold. Now all Uncle Peter had to do was to cure
the medicine.

CHAPTER VI.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SETBACK.

Dinner was nearly over that evening at Uncle Peter's villa in
Ruraldene when suddenly the doorbell rang violently and two minutes
later the servant announced that Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius McGowan
were in the parlor.

First I decided to faint; then I changed my mind and tried to
figure out which would be the most cruelly effective way of killing
Bunch Jefferson.

Uncle Peter resented the unexpected arrival of these strangers,
because he wanted to sit around and have the home folks tell him
how sick he was.

"I'd like to know what Bunch Jefferson means by sending his
relatives over to us on a Sunday evening," my wife's uncle snapped.
"Why doesn't he worry old Bill Grey with them, eh? It's bad enough
for me to have to sneeze my head off before my own people, but I'll
be dod bimmed if I'm going to sit around the parlor and play solos
on my bronchial tubes for the edification of strangers--no, sir!"

Uncle Peter sniffled off to his apartments, and Peaches said she'd
try to entertain the visitors.

I concluded to help her some.

Skinski arose from the sofa and greeted us with his most elaborate
bow.

Ma'moselle Dodo didn't Society very much.

She sat in the middle of the room and sang soft lullabys to a
hold-over.

"Mr. Jefferson, my nephew," Skinski was saying, "insisted that we
should hit the suburban trail and locate your shack. Here's a note
from nephew Bunch for you."

Skinski handed me the note with a face as solemn as a
monkey-wrench, and I read it:

CITY, Sunday P.M.

DEAR JOHN--I send herewith t