n the evening, he woke
up in a private ward in St. Michael's Hospital. There were only two
beds in that ward. When William opened his eyes, a kindly faced
nursing sister was bending over him.

"Where's Lucien?" he demanded.

The sister smiled. "In the bed near you," she said, gently; "his
mother and father have just left him; he's----"

William sat straight up in the bed. "Say," he said, brokenly, "he
ain't going to die, is he?"

"No," she answered, "he's doing splendidly, and he's fast asleep."

William laughed happily. "Oh, but he's a pippin, a real pippin; and me
thinking he was a dub. If he wakes up, and I'm asleep, nurse, you can
tell him from me that I'm a mutt. He's the real thing, is Lucien."
Then he looked down at his hands, swathed in bandages, and grinned.
"Kinder early for winter mitts," he said. "Gee, but my hands sting!
Has my Ma and Pa been here?"

"They're here now, waiting to see you. They've been here for two
hours, William."

"Two hours! and me lying on the downy while they're worryin'.
Me--uh!--I ain't worth it."

The sister opened the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Turnpike, with anxious
faces and eyes somewhat dimmed, were soon bending over their boy,
kissing him, and whispering words of love and praise and sympathy.
After their farewells, William turned to the sister with shining eyes.
"Nobody ever had a Ma and Pa like mine," he said, "and my hands are
sore, but I'm tired--tired--" he closed his eyes--"and I'm a mutt.
Lucien's got it on me all over when it comes to a show down." And
William slept.

There followed a strange experience for the two boys. Reporters
interviewed them, and the interviews mostly read as though the boys
were past masters in the use of correct English. One enterprising
reporter wrote up William's story just as the lad gave it. The
majority of readers appreciated that interview because the lad's
language appealed to them, but by the time the editor of the newspaper
in which it appeared had read the third letter from "pro bono publico,"
protesting against the putting of so much slang into the mouth of a
mere child, he regretted that he had not made the reporter re-write it.
Being human, he, of course, lectured the reporter with asperity, and
the reporter, being a man of spirit, instead of taking the lecture to
heart, resigned, entered the field of literature, and, in a
comparatively short time, became a noted writer of short stories. He
blessed William at t