“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.
”—Or a cupful of prune tea.”
“That sounds better,” said Tom, smiling.
Mrs Fidler shook her head.
“I shouldn’t like to deceive you, Master Tom,” she said, “because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don’t taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it’s a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon—Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!”
For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.
Chapter Forty Two.
Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother—