But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom
was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his
imagination working, and so his groans had gathered
quite a genuine tone.
Sid flew down-stairs and said:
"Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"
"Dying!"
"Yes'm. Don't wait -- come quick!"
"Rubbage! I don't believe it!"
But she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and
Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too,
and her lip trembled. When she reached the bedside
she gasped out:
"You, Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, auntie, I'm --"
"What's the matter with you -- what is the matter
with you, child?"
"Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"
The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed
a little, then cried a little, then did both together.
This restored her and she said:
"Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you
shut up that nonsense and climb out of this."
The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the
toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said:
"Aunt Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it hurt so I
never minded my tooth at all."
"Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your
tooth?"
"One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."
"There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again.
Open your mouth. Well -- your tooth IS loose, but
you're not going to die about that. Mary, get me a
silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen."
Tom said:
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