"No--never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe. Don't call anybody."

     "But I must! Don't groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this way?"

     "Hours. Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill me."

     "Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom, don't! It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?"

     "I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you've ever done to me. When I'm gone--"

     "Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom--oh, don't. Maybe--"

     "I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her--"

     But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.

     Sid flew downstairs and said:

     "Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"