“Miss Duluth’s afraid of diphtheria and 23 scarlet fever,” said Annie, resolutely, as she poured out a glass of milk for him.
“Not likely to be any diphtheria this time of year,” he began again, spurred by the kick Phoebe planted on his kneecap.
“Well, orders is orders. What Miss Duluth says goes.”
“Ah, come now, Annie––”
“Say, do you want her to ketch scarlet fever and die?” demanded the nurse, putting the bottle down and glaring at him with a look of mixed commiseration and scorn.
“Good Heavens, no!” he ejaculated. The very thought of it brought a gush of cold water to his mouth.
“Well, take her to see it if you must, but don’t blame me. She’s your kid,” said Annie, meanly, with victory assured.
“Make her say ‘Yes,’” urged Phoebe, in a loud whisper.
He hedged. “Do you want to have the scarlet fever?” he asked, dismally.
“Yes,” said Phoebe. “And measles, too.”