Aunt Saxon had apple dumplings with plenty of “goo,” black with cinnamon just the way he loved it, but he only minced at the first helping and scarcely tasted the second. He chopped a great many kindling after supper, and filled the woodbox, and thoughtfully wound the clock. Then instead of going out with his usual “I gotta beat it!” he sat languidly on the doorstep in the dusk, and when she anxiously questioned if he were sick he said crossly:
“Aw, Gee! Can't ya let a fella alone! I'm all in, can't ya see it? I'm gonta bed!” and knowing he had said the most alarming thing in the whole category he slammed upstairs to his own room and flung himself across his bed.
Aunt Saxon filled with vague fears crept softly up after him, tapping at his locked door:
“Willie, what is the matter? Just tell auntie where the pain is and I'll get you some medicine that will fix you all up by morning. I'll get you a hot water bag—!”
“DON'T WANT NO HOT WATER BAGS!” roared the sore hearted Billy. “Can't ya lemme alone?”
Silence a moment while Aunt Saxon pondered tearfully and sighfully, then:
“Willie, is it the tooth ache?”
“NoooOH!” roared Billy.
A pause, then:
“Billy, you've had a fall off that wheel and hurt yer head or cut yer knee, I know, I've always thought you'd do that, that old wheel! You oughtta have a new one. But I'll bring the arnica and bathe it. And we'll paint it with iodine—where was it Willie? Yer knee?”