“But I’m quite well, thank you.”
“Come now, little boys mustn’t tell stories. You know you’re not. Smell it. Isn’t it nice?”
Teddy smelt it. It certainly was not nice. He shook his head.
“Ah,” she coaxed, “but it tastes ever so much better than it smells. It’ll make you perspire.”
He did not doubt that it would make him perspire, but still he eyed it with distrust. “What’s in it?” he questioned.
“Something I made especially for you; I’ve never given it to anybody else.”
“But what’s in it?” he insisted with a touch of childish petulance at her evasion.
She patted his hand. “Butter, and brown sugar, and vinegar, and bay leaves. There! It’ll make you sweat, Teddy—make you feel ever so much better.”
“But I’m quite——”
He got no further. As he opened his mouth to assert his perfect health, the glass was pressed against his lips and tilted. He had to swallow or be deluged.