“Yes'm.”
After her departure Penrod drowsily enjoyed the sugar coating of the pill; but this was indeed a brief pleasure. A bitterness that was like a pang suddenly made itself known to his sense of taste, and he realized that he had dallied too confidingly with the product of a manufacturing chemist who should have been indicted for criminal economy. The medicinal portion of the little pill struck the wall with a faint tap, then dropped noiselessly to the floor, and, after a time, Penrod slept.
Some hours later he began to dream; he dreamed that his feet and legs were becoming uncomfortable as a result of Sam Williams's activities with a red-hot poker.
“You QUIT that!” he said aloud, and awoke indignantly. Again a dark, wrappered figure hovered over the bed.
“It's only a hot-water bag, dear,” Mrs. Schofield said, still labouring under the covers with an extended arm. “You mustn't hunch yourself up that way, Penrod. Put your feet down on it.”
And, as he continued to hunch himself, she moved the bag in the direction of his withdrawal.
“Ow, murder!” he exclaimed convulsively. “What you tryin' to do? Scald me to death?”
“Penrod—”
“My goodness, Mamma,” he wailed; “can't you let me sleep a MINUTE?”
“It's very bad for you to let your feet get cold, dear.”