At
the head of the bill was a rough woodcut of Sillett. Jeff crumpled up
the sheet of paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"It's him--sure 'nough," he growled. Then he gasped suddenly, "Jee-
roosalem! Bud is a rosebud!"
He smiled, frowned, and tugged at his moustache as Bud appeared with
some more hot water. Jeff blushed.
"You're real kind, but I hate to give ye all this trouble."
Bud, after bathing the swollen leg, glanced up sharply.
"You're as red as the king of hearts. You ain't going to have a
fever?"
"I do feel kind o' feverish," Jeff admitted.
Bud lightly touched his forehead.
"Why, it's burning hot, I do declare."
Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, "I b'lieve it'd help me
some if you was to stroke my derned head."
Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls. Jeff's forehead was certainly
hot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud's fingers.
"Hello!" exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.
"Here's Dad coming across the creek."
* * * * *
Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak.
He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net.
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