, John?"

"I'm hu-u-ngry."

"Lie still. I'll be up with your dinner in a few moments."

He hoped it would be something good. Beefsteak and mashed potatoes and
peas would be about right. Omelet would do, if there were enough. He
could devour the house, he felt so ravenous.

Shortly his mother appeared with the big brown tray, drew up a
straight-backed chair to the bed, and lowered the feast to it before his
expectant eyes.

"Milk toast!" disgustedly.

"Why not?"

[Illustration: _"Milk toast!"_]

"That isn't enough for a fellow. Aren't there any potatoes or meat?"

"They'd make your temperature rise," Mrs. Fletcher explained gently.
"Perhaps, though, you can have some tomorrow, if you're better."

He waited until she left the room and attacked the mushy stuff hungrily.
Everything is grist which comes to a small boy's digestive mill, anyway,
and the food wasn't really distasteful. Then he lay back and, for the
first time in his active life, realized what a refined torture complete
and enforced idleness can be.

The shadows played incessantly on the brown wallpaper as the window
curtains swung back and forth with the air currents and lightened and
plunged his prison into oppressive twilight alternately. A fly made a
complete toilette on the bed cover before his interested eyes, now
brushing the gauzy wings, now twisting its head this way and that way,
as if indulging in a form of calisthenics. He stretched forth a cautious
hand to capture the insect, only to watch it buzz merrily away before
his arm was in striking distance.

A suburban train puffed noisily past and slowed down at the adjacent
station. Only twenty minutes elapsed! And an afternoon of this awful
monotony faced him.

He blinked idly at the ceiling. This was Thursday. Played properly, his
malady should be sufficient to keep him out of school on the morrow; but
was the game worth the candle?

John dressed himself hurriedly and bounced down the stairs. Mrs.
Fletcher was in the parlor, glancing for a brief moment at a newly
arrived magazine. He presented himself sheepishly.

No, he didn't want to stay in bed. He felt all right--honest!

She examined the invalid carefully. The inflammation had left his eyes
and they were now as clear as her own. His skin felt cool to the touch,
without a trace of fever, and his tongue was an even, healthy pink.

"There doesn't seem much the matter with you now," she admitted. "It
won't hurt you to stay up if