Whereupon, with his own vocal organs, Bertie reproduced Gracie's racking cough. The other children attempted the imitation, but none with success, and he accompanied the cough, moreover, with such an expression of woe upon his face, that the children were lost in admiration. Spurred to greater efforts by their approval he wound up with so faithful a reproduction of Gracie in the last exhausting stage of a paroxysm that it brought down the house.
"Is that like it, Gracie?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, with unmoved face, "that's like it."
One of the children, burning with envy at her brother's histrionic triumph, expressed her feelings with her legs.
"Connie's kicking me, Gracie," cried Bertie, at the same time returning the kicks beneath the bedclothes.
"If you don't leave off," said Gracie, impassively, "I'll come and slap you."
She had to be very careful with the children's underclothing. So full of holes and rents were they that the least violence would have wrought irremediable havoc among them--and where was mother to get the money from to buy new ones?
"There," she said, hanging the last garment on the line, and wiping her hands and arms on her wet apron, "that job's done."
The children raised a cheer, and simultaneously sat up in bed in a state of eager expectation. Six little heads nestling close, six eager faces turned towards Gracie. They had not a clear view of her, because night was coming on.
"Wait a bit," she said, "we must have a light, and I must make up the fire."