“No, sir. My mother put some stuff from the drug store on it.”
“Oh, I see. Probably it's all right, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Penrod drew breath more freely, and accepted the warm cookie Mrs. Williams brought him. He ate it without relish.
“You can have only one apiece,” she said. “It's too near dinner-time. You needn't beg for any more, because you can't have 'em.”
They were good about that; they were in no frame of digestion for cookies.
“Was it your own dog that bit you?” Mr. Williams inquired.
“Sir? No, sir. It wasn't Duke.”
“Penrod!” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “When did it happen?”
“I don't remember just when,” he answered feebly. “I guess it was day before yesterday.”
“Gracious! How did it—”