Suddenly Little came towards her. “Excuse me, but do you know what those berries are?” He was pointing to the low bush filled with dark clusters of shining—suspiciously shining—fruit.
“Certainly; they are blueberries.”
“Pardon me; you are mistaken. They belong to quite another family.”
Miss Impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three feet nine and a half inches), and, curling an eighth of an inch of scarlet lip, said scornfully, “Your family, perhaps.”
Faraday Little smiled in the superiority of boyhood over girlhood.
“I allude to the classification. That plant is the belladonna, or deadly nightshade. Its alkaloid is a narcotic poison.”
Sauciness turned pale. “I—have—just—eaten—some!” And began to whimper. “Oh dear, what shall I do?” Then did it, i. e., wrung her small fingers, and cried.
“Pardon me one moment.” Little passed his arm around her neck, and with his thumb opened widely the patrician-veined lids of her sweet blue eyes. “Thank Heaven, there is yet no dilation of the pupil; it is not too late!” He cast a rapid glance around. The nozzle and about three feet of garden hose lay near him.
“Open your mouth, quick!”
It was a pretty, kissable mouth. But young Little meant business. He put the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go.