"Gently, girl!" he said. "This little body is covered with sores."
"Sores!" she ejaculated. "Sores! What kind of sores?"
"Oh, they might be from bruises made by fists or boot toes, or they might be bad blood, from wrong eating, or they might be pure filth. Will you hand me some towels?"
"No, I won't!" said Margaret.
"Well, give me some rags, then."
Margaret compromised on pieces of old tablecloth.
Sinton led Billy to the cistern, pumped cold water into the tub, poured in a kettle of hot, and beginning at the head scoured him. The boy shut his little teeth, and said never a word, though he twisted occasionally when the soap struck a raw spot. Margaret watched the process from the window in amazed and ever-increasing anger. Where did Wesley learn it? How could his big hands be so gentle? Sinton came to the door.
"Have you got any peroxide?" he asked.
"A little," she answered stiffly.
"Well, I need about a pint, but I'll begin on what you have."
Margaret handed him the bottle. Wesley took a cup, weakened the drug, and said to Billy, "Man, these sores on you must be healed. Then you must eat the kind of food that's fit for little men. I am going to put some medicine on you, and it Is going to sting like fire. If it
