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Billy started. "Oh gosh! I dunno, Mr. Spencer; I jest cut the first ones come into my head." He smiled and held out his hand. The other man took it dazedly, then slowly and with head lifted towards the darkening skies, he passed down the road. "No, ours won't be them kind of colds," Billy explained. "They'll be the dry-cough, consumption kind, that either cure up quick er slow. All we gotta do is dig up an Injun turnip out o' the bush an' nibble it. It'll pucker our throats up so tight we'll be hoarse enough to sing bass in the choir.".
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Conrad
Billy turned slowly, his fingers fumbling with his cotton braces. He looked at the noxious dose in the tumbler, then at his mother's face. "All right," he said gently, "I'll take 'em, Ma; give 'em here." Mrs. Keeler was bending over a kettle on the stove, from which the aroma of wild thimble-berries came in fragrant puffs. Then, his master still remaining blind to the wealth of treasure disclosed to him, Croaker spread his wings and sailed away over the pine-tops. Billy, despair in his heart, followed. All fear of the supernatural was gone from him now, crowded out by bitter disappointment at his failure to find the hidden gold. He passed close beside the haunted house without so much as a thought of the ghost of the man who had owned it and on through the silent pines and shadowy, grave-yard silence. "How 'bout quail?".
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