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 Ned looked at him with more interest, wondering if it could be Kewpie's state of health that was concerning Polly Deane. But it was difficult to associate that youth's bulk with illness, and Ned abandoned the idea. "What's wrong with you?" he inquired jeeringly.

"It seems to be my stomach," said Kewpie, laying a sympathetic hand on that portion of his anatomy.

"Does, eh? Well, what have you been eating?"

"Eating? Nothing much. Well, I did have a cream-puff and a tart at the Widow's, but I guess it isn't that."

"Oh, no, of course not, you silly prune! And you probably had a nut sundae with whipped cream and sliced peaches and a lot of other truck on it. Funny you don't feel well, isn't it?"

"I didn't have any whipped cream," said Kewpie indignantly. "It—it makes me bilious."

"Well, come on over to the field. It'll do you good."

"I've been there. There's nothing doing,