e.

"No, and he won't. I don't jump on him as you fellows do and so I get
his confidence. He's in my room two or three times every night going
over his symptoms. When his foot's asleep he thinks he's got creeping
paralysis. Every time his breath comes short, his heart's giving out."

"That's hereditary!" said Marny; "he said so."

"Hereditary be hanged! Same with everything else. Last night he dug me
out of bed and wanted me to count his pulse--thought it intermitted.
He's hipped, I tell you, on his health!"

"That's because he lives on nothing," rejoined Marny. "Tine puts the
toast in the oven over night so it will be dry enough for him in the
morning--she told me so yesterday. Now he's running on sour milk and
vinegar--'blood too alkaline,' he says--got a chalky taste in his
mouth!"

"Well, whatever it is, he's a rum-nuisance," said Pudfut, "and he ought
to be jumped on."

"Yes," retorted Stebbins, "but not about his food. Jump on him about
his health, then he'll kick back and in pure obstinacy begin to think
he's well--that's his nature."

"Don't you do anything of the kind," protested Marny. "Joppy's all
right--best lad I know. Let him talk; doesn't hurt anybody and keeps
everything alive. A little hot air now and then helps his epigastric."

Malone and Schonholz had raised themselves on their elbows, twisted
their shoulders and had put their heads together--literally--without
lifting their lazy bodies from the warm, dry grass--so close that one
slouch hat instead of two might have covered their conspiring brains.
From under the rims of these thatches came smothered laughs and such
unintelligible mutterings as:

"Dot's de vay, by chimminy, 'Loney! And den I--"

"No, begorra! Let me have a crack at him fu'st!"

"No, I vill before go and you come--"

"Not a word to Marny, remimber; he'd give it away--"

"Yes, but we vill tell Poodfut und Sthebbins, eh?"

That afternoon the diabolical plot was put in motion. The men had
finished for the day; had crossed the ferry and had found Joplin
wandering around the dock looking for a new subject. The Groote Kerk
"smear" was under his arm.

Pudfut, under pretence of inspecting the smear--a portrait of the old
Sacristan on a bench in front of the main entrance--started back in
surprise on seeing the Bostonian, and asked with an anxious tone in his
voice:

"Aren't you well, old man? Look awfully yellow about the gills. Worked
too hard, haven't you? No use overdo