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up.”

    â€œPneumonia, probably,” cooed the pigeon.
    â€œThanks a lot!” said Tucker. But he began to worry.
    The next day he worried even more, because Huppy’s nose was hotter still. And back came Lulu, with more cheery information. “Max says there’s nothing that you can do. He says he eats a special grass when he’s sick. But it’s winter now, and the grass is dead.”
    â€œWell, I think there’s something to do,” said Harry. “We’ll keep him warm, and give him lots to eat and drink—he’ll be well in a week.”
    â€œHope so,” said Lulu. “Toodle-oo!”
    Huppy was not well in a week. If anything, he was worse. Harry tried to stay calm, although he too, behind a hopeful smile, was extremely concerned. Someone had to stay calm, because Tucker was frantic—more frantic, that is, than usual. He would feel just as guilt-ridden if the dog died of pneumonia as he would if they hadn’t been able to find him at all. And he ran around the drainpipe, as Harry Cat said, feeling Huppy’s nose every hour, “like a hysterical head nurse.” Harry sneaked a touch himself every now and then, when Tucker was out scrounging up something for Huppy to eat.
    And if as a nurse the mouse overdid it somewhat, in the matter of food he proved himself a hero. Like most sick people, Huppy had no appetite, and to get him the goodies that went down most easily, Tucker risked life, limb, and dignity. He found that the one thing that always was welcome was un melted ice cream. The soup left over when a chunk had melted was not enough; Huppy liked to lap at the sweet solid cold. Very natural too, Nurse Tucker decided, for someone who had a fever. But rushing the stuff in a paper cup all the way back to the drainpipe late at night when the lunch stand had closed was quite a task. (Fortunately, the cover to the vanilla ice-cream container did not quite fit.)
    It was when Huppy began to ask for strawberry that Harry suspected he was getting better. He was sure of it one morning after Tucker had taken his temperature for the tenth time that day and Harry had told him to for heaven’s sake lay off!—and the dog airily allowed, “Oh, that’s all right, Harry. Tucker can hold my nose if he wants to.” (At least, after all these weeks—it already was January—Huppy had his “r’s” by now.)
    â€œHe can, can he—mhmm,” Harry purred. “I think instead of nose-holding what you need now is a little fresh air.”
    â€œFresh air!” shrieked Tucker. “You want him to get pneumonia again?”
    â€œAnd since we’re having a thaw right now, I believe we’ll go up to the sidewalk tonight and get you at least ten good breaths. All right?”
    â€œNo, Harry!”
    â€œAll right.” When Harry Cat agreed with himself, the argument was settled. He didn’t want Huppy to become a chronic invalid. Which is often what happens when a sick youngster who is getting better is fed too much ice cream.
    *   *   *
    So that night—after Tucker had tried, and failed, to tie the piece of flannel shirt around the puppy with a piece of precious string—they set out for the sidewalk.
    Set out, that is, two steps. Then Harry and Tucker froze in their tracks and stared at each other. The dog couldn’t fit through the opening!
    â€œHarry—he’s grown—”
    â€œHawy!”
    â€œNow don’t be scared. And don’t forget your r’s,” said the cat. “You worked hard on them. We’ll get you out of here.” Neither he nor Tucker had noticed how much the puppy had grown. “That darned ice cream!” thought Harry—along with the hamburgers and the franks and everything else that Tucker had stuffed into him. “We’ll just have to use the back way—through the pipes.”
    It wasn’t that easy, however. The back