“I don’t like that pretty well,” she announced to herself as the result of her attempt. “I wonder if I have the lumbago in my throat,—and to-night is Emily’s party! I won’t have a sore throat. I never did in my life before, and I won’t begin to-night—provoking old thing!”
She swallowed vigorously several times, and winked back the tears.
“There! that didn’t hurt much. Wonder if it’s swollen.” She hopped out of bed quickly, and ran to the glass. She opened the neck of her night-dress and examined her round, white throat critically. It certainly was a trifle larger on one side, and was sore, as she pressed it a little.
“Oh, my patience, if it should be lumbago!” she groaned tragically. She hadn’t the faintest idea what lumbago is, but the name sounded to her as if it might be something that could come in the throat. “Wonder how long it would take lumbago to come on. I won’t have it begin till after to-night, anyway. How queer my head feels! I guess I’ll look inside my throat.”
Cricket turned quickly to draw up the shade, that she might see better what inroads the “lumbago” had already made. The quick movement made her aching head dizzy. She stumbled forward, tripped over her long night-dress, and sat down, hitting the water pitcher which she had left the night before standing by the wash-stand. Over went the pitcher, and out came a deluge of water, almost setting bewildered Cricket afloat, as she lay huddled up on the floor.
“Cricket, what an awful racket you’re making,” said Eunice sleepily, from her bed. “Don’t get up yet. It isn’t time. It isn’t light enough.”
“Don’t get up? Do you think I’m going to lie here and drown?” asked Cricket indignantly, getting rather weakly on her feet. “I’ve knocked over the water pitcher.” She pulled the towels off the rack, and began mopping up the flood that crawled in every direction. “I’m wet through to my bones, I do believe, and there isn’t a dry inch in my night-dress.”
“Put on another one, and get on your bedroom slippers. Don’t hop around there another minute with your bare feet,” ordered Eunice, sleepily, but sensibly.
Cricket mopped dejectedly. “The water tipped straight into my slippers. There! That will do till Jane gets at it. Ugh! my feet are as cold as chopsticks. I’ll change my night-dress, and then I’m going to get into bed with you, Eunice, and get warm.”
By breakfast time, Cricket felt very queer indeed. At any other time her mother would have noticed her lack of appetite and flushed cheeks; but just now it was, of course, put down to the excitement of the coming event. Her throat was stiffer than ever. She managed to slip down a little oatmeal, but the other things hurt too much to attempt.