With an exaggerated effort he pulled himself to his feet and reeled across the kitchen, only to fall in an imaginary swoon at the foot of the back stairs. But hearing footsteps he revived sufficiently to crawl upstairs dragging a bullet-pierced leg lifelessly behind.
He had reached the room occupied jointly by himself and his brother Henry, where he had indulged in several additional swoons (in the performance of which he had now become quite an expert) when he was suddenly reminded of the accident to his clothes. He took them off and holding them at arm's length, sniffed at them judicially. Then he pronounced them guilty, and dropped them on the floor pending sentence.
He at once began to put on his best suit, but before he had finished he heard Henry coming. He kicked the offending garments under the bed and stepped into the hallway, pulling on his jacket as he went. He intercepted his brother at the head of the stairs.
"Hey, Cathead!" he called affably, addressing Henry by his nickname. "Know some'pm?"
"What?" grunted Cathead, who was fourteen, studiously inclined, and suspicious of anything Sube knew and he didn't, because it was usually inaccurate and often led into mischief.
"There's a new batch of cookies down in the pantry!"
Cathead's interest was aroused, but he tried to conceal it. "What you all dressed up for?" he demanded.
Sube had hoped to preclude any such inquiry, and made something of a mess of his reply. "Why—now—now, I'm—I'm goin' somewheres," he stammered.
"Where?"
"Never you mind where!" cried Sube with affected gayety. "Don't you wish't you knew! But let's go and get a cookie."