“I don't want to be cured,” Penrod said, adding inconsistently, “I haven't got anything to be cured of.”
“Now, dear,” Mrs. Schofield began, “you don't want your papa and me to keep on worrying about—”
“I don't care whether you worry or not,” the heartless boy interrupted. “I don't want to take any horrable ole medicine. What's that grass and weeds in the bottle for?”
Mrs. Schofield looked grieved. “There isn't any grass and there aren't any weeds; those are healthful herbs.”
“I bet they'll make me sick.”
She sighed. “Penrod, we're trying to make you well.”
“But I AM well, I tell you!”
“No, dear; your papa's been very much troubled about you. Come, Penrod; swallow this down and don't make such a fuss about it. It's just for your own good.”
And she advanced upon him again, the spoon extended toward his lips. It almost touched them, for he had retreated until his back was against the wall-paper. He could go no farther; but he evinced his unshaken repugnance by averting his face.
“What's it taste like?” he demanded.