“Poor arm!” said she, as the boy winced at her kindly but bungling dressing.
“Fudge!” scoffed he.
“Oh, I wish you hadn’t had anything to do with it!” tearing a handkerchief into strips to bind it on with.
“Yes, that’s all you know about it. What [p51] has Mother Peggy been saying about me? I’m the dog with a bad name; I suppose she’s hanged me.”
“No; she said only kind words of you—at least, what she thought were kind.”
“Oh, ay! everybody is kind after that fashion, I suppose. Now, about holding your tongue?”
“Do you mean I mustn’t say anything about your burnt arm?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t, if I can help it.”
“We know you can help it. Good night.”