Bloomah turned white; this was scarcely less tragic.
'Poor Becky!' said her heedless parent.
'There's time after school,' she faltered.
'What!' shrieked Mrs. Beckenstein. 'And not give the fish time to get cold! It's that red mark again—sooner than lose it you'd see your own sister eat hot fish. Be off at once to her, you unnatural brat, or I'll bang the frying-pan about your head. That'll give you a red mark—yes, and a black mark, too! My poor Becky never persecuted me with Banners, and she's twice the scholard you are.'
'Why, she can't spell "neuralgia,"' said Bloomah resentfully.
'And who wants to spell a thing like that? It's bad enough to feel it. Wait till you have babies and neuralgy of your own, and you'll see how you'll spell.'
'She can't spell "racked" either,' put in Daniel.
His mother turned on him witheringly. 'She didn't go to school with the Meshummodim.'
Bloomah suddenly picked up her satchel.
'What's your books for? You don't fry fish with books.' Mrs. Beckenstein wrested it away from her, and dashed it on the floor. The pencil-case rolled one way, the thimble another.