I DIDN'T see much of Uncle Rob for several weeks. He was busy at the store, and I had to study evenings. I had tried to read some in the Christian Science text-book; but I couldn't seem to get the hang of it; and besides I'd been having a cold, and felt bum.
One Sunday afternoon he came over and sat down on the upper step of the veranda and leaned back against the pillar, just as he had that first evening. "How's everything, Chet?" he said.
I kicked against the railing.
"Is that the way you feel?" he asked.
"It sure is," I said.
"Why don't you take something for it?"
"Take something for it! I've done nothing but fight off mustard plasters and flaxseed tea and hot lemonade, for three weeks;—they're shoved at me every time I put my nose in the door; and every time I bark on the street, somebody rushes up with a new dose or the makin's of one; or puts in twenty-seven minutes telling about the
