ead! The rest of these kids think they can plead azh
good azh I can, but they can't! They can't plead worth a darn!"

Mrs. Westfall relinquished her hold on the ear as if it had been a hot
coal. Her jaw fell. Her breath came with difficulty. The leering face,
the disrespect, the profanity! It was more than she could bear. She was
shocked. She was humiliated! She was dumfounded!

Quite unmindful of his mother's presence Biscuit lurched towards the
gasping members of her temperance flock and called out invitingly:

"Have a little liquor, ladies! Then I'll plead for you! Hey,
bartender!"--he stalked over and prodded Sube with his foot--"Wake up
there, and 'tend to your customers!"

"Don't touch me," growled Sube. "I'm an awful sick boy!"

"Shick! Who's shick? _You?_--Aw, come off! You're only playin' up!"
bawled Biscuit. "You wazh laughin' louder'n anybody a minute ago!"

But the truth of Sube's assertion was soon apparent to all. He was
undeniably sick. And the mere sight of his distress seemed to have an
unfavorable effect on the other thespians, for one by one they were
seized with similar spasms. Biscuit, who was the last to succumb, was
the sickest of all. His moans were the loudest, his convulsions the most
violent, his cramps the most griping.

Somebody had the presence of mind to run for Dr. Richards, but he was
not in his office. Efforts to get in touch with any of the other
physicians in town failed. They were all at the hospital watching the
performance of a rare operation by an eminent surgeon from a nearby
city. So the women of the Temperance Union helped the stricken boys to
their respective homes as best they could, that being considered the
proper place to die.

That it was a case of wholesale poisoning was readily apparent to all
but the victims. And each mother upon receiving her writhing son, put
into practise her idea of first aid to the poisoned. Stucky Richards'
mother tried the stomach pump without fatal results. Mrs. Sigsbee used a
mustard plaster on Cottontop's abdomen and camphor on his temples with
about equal success. Biscuit's mother prayed; but rather for her son's
forgiveness than his recovery.

The Cane boys were put to bed and compelled to drink several quarts of
tepid soapsuds while their father was rushing home from the office.

"What have you been eating?" he demanded breathlessly when, at last, he
reached Sube's bedside.

"Nu--nu--nuthin'," Sube managed to gulp out.

"Now