as a spanked baby. No, you're not sick, so
to speak!"

There was another silence, Ambrose squirming a little and blushing
under Peter's calm, speculative gaze.

"Have you anything against me?" Peter finally inquired. "If you have,
out with it!"

The young man shook his head unhappily.

"Forget it then!" cried Peter with a scornful, kindly grin. "You
ornery worthless Slavi, you! You Shushwap! You Siwash! Change your
face or you'll give the dog distemper!"

Ambrose laughed sheepishly and stole a glance at his partner. There
was pain in his bold eyes, and the wish to bare it to his friend as to
a surgeon; but he dreaded Peter's laughter.

There was another long silence. The atmosphere was now much clearer.

Peter, having come to a conclusion, removed his pipe and spoke again:
"I know what's the matter with you."

"What?" muttered Ambrose.

"You've got the June fever."

Ambrose made no comment.

"I mind it when I was your age," Peter continued; "when the ice goes
out of the lake and the poplar-trees hang out their little earrings,
that's when a man catches it--when Molly Cottontail puts on her brown
jacket and Skinny Weasel a yellow one. The south wind brings the
microbe along with it, and it multiplies in the warm earth. Gee! It
makes even an old feller like me poetical. After six months of winter
it's hell!"

Still Ambrose kept his eyes down and said nothing.

Peter smoked on, and his eyes became reminiscent. "I mind it well," he
continued, "the second spring I was in the country. The first year I
didn't notice it so much, but the second year--when the warm weather
come I was like a wild man. I saw red! I wanted to fight every man I
laid eyes on. I felt like I would go clean off my head if I couldn't
smash something!"

Ambrose broke in on Peter's reminiscences. He seemed scarcely to have
heard.

"I don't know what's the matter with me!" he cried bitterly. "I can't
seem to settle down to anything lately. I've got no use for myself at
all. I get so cranky, anybody that speaks to me I want to punch them.
God knows I need company, too. It is certainly square of you to put up
with me the way you do. I appreciate it--"

"Aw, bosh!" muttered Peter.

"I've tried to work it off!" cried Ambrose. "You know I've worked,
though I've generally made a mess of things because I can't keep my
mind on anything. My head goes round like a top. Half the time I'm in
a daze. I feel as if I was