“Water,” said Clifford, giving my fingers a squeeze.
“Rats,” announced Jack, in a tone which left us doubtful as to his meaning.
“Microbes,” finished I, not to be outdone by their brevity and aplomb.
“Zella!” cried Aunt Jane, glancing apprehensively at the Professor.
The Professor looked at me and sighed, and Jack clapped both hands over his heart and nearly sighed himself off the three-legged stool. Jack can’t endure Professor Goldburn.
“Zella,” began Aunt Jane pointedly, “don’t you think you would be more comfortable in that chair?” (meaning the ghost chair.)
“No, I don’t!” I snapped, very impertinently, I’m afraid—but catch me sitting in that chair again!
Aunt Jane turned to Jack, perched uncomfortably on the stool. (Now Jack is proverbially lazy: he never sits upright when he can lean.)
“Well, Jack! I never knew you to let a cushioned armchair go begging an occupant. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing,” drawled Jack. “You sit there yourself, mother.”