Billy shook his head. "No good, she'd be onto us bigger'n a barn. Tell you what we might do. We might take bad colds an' sorta work on her sympathies."
"Humph! an' be kept close in the house fer a week er so, an' have to take physic an' stuff. No good, Bill!"
"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."
Maurice let his kindling fall. "Gee!" he exclaimed, "I've got a piece of Injun turnip in my pocket right now. Ain't that lucky!"
"How'd you come to have it?"
"Dug it up to fool Fatty Watland with. Was goin' to tell him it was a ground-nut. I've had it in fer him ever since he shoved me off the bridge into the creek."
"Let's have it."
Billy took the Indian turnip from his chum and with his knife scraped off a portion of white, pungent pulp. "Now then, put this on the back of your tongue, an' leave it there," he directed.
Maurice grimaced as he licked the bit of pulp from the knife blade. "'Course we both know this danged thing is pisin," he said, uncertainly. "Maybe we're fools, Bill?"
"There's no maybe about it, far's you're concerned. Do as I tell you; slide it 'way back so's it'll tighten your throat. That's right," as Maurice heroically obeyed. "Now, let's get up to the house."