CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DAY OF THE SALE It was strange Hugh did not improve faster, the old doctor thought.
There was something weighing on his mind, he said, something which kept him awake, and the kind man set himself to divine the cause.

Thinking at last he had done so, he said to him one day, the last before the sale: "My boy, you don't get on for worrying about something.

I don't pretend to second sight, but I b'lieve I've got on the right track.

It's my pesky bill.

I know it's big, for I've been here every day this going on three months, but I'll cut it down to the last cent, see if I don't; and if it's an object, I'll wait ten years, so chirk up a bit," and wringing his hand, the well-meaning doctor hurried off, leaving Hugh alone with his sad thoughts.
It was not so much the bill which troubled him--it was Rocket, and the feeling sure that he should never own him again.