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 I sponged and soothed him until the doctor came. Together we gave him whisky and milk, with a big spoon; and he revived enough to lick my hand, and bump the floor once with his tail; but he was very weak, and hardly noticed us. After looking him over carefully, the doctor shook his head. "He will die," he said. "He has lost so much blood that he cannot rally."

"He shall not die," I cried in great wrath; "he is my only pet, and I will save him."

The doctor smiled. "Well, perhaps you may," he said, "but I doubt it. If he were mine I would kill him and put him out of misery."

I got a box and put it in the kitchen, close to my bedroom door, and day and night I tended Master Frisky. All that loving hands could do, I did for him; but he was so weak that I often despaired, and thought that the doctor was right after all.

I fed him whisky and milk, and sponged his burning nose and lips with cold water, and made him as comfortable as possible. When I had been fussing over him, I always felt well repaid when he licked my hand, and gave the edge of the box one thump with his tail.

He was often out of his head; for he would start up and growl savagely, or bark excitedly when there was nothing about.

That afternoon I was standing by the window, when Ned, Master Frisky's particular