Mrs. Pratt gave a long sigh.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “You all had clams, as well as he. You had a clam stew. Why should he suffer more’n you’ns?”
The boys started, and looked at one another. How in the world had Mrs. Pratt found out about the clams? They felt uneasy at first, but soon recollected that, after all, cooking clams was no harm. So they regained their courage.
“Why, you see,” said Jiggins, at last, “it was different with Pat. We had them cooked, but he ate them raw.”
“And you think that makes any difference,” said Mrs. Pratt, grimly.
“Why, certainly—of course,” said Jiggins, looking at Mrs. Pratt anxiously; while all the other boys stared at her in dire anticipation of some fearful disclosure.
“Not a mite,” said Mrs. Pratt. “There isn’t a mite of difference between you,—all of you, mind, and him,—on’y he was kind o’ took bad at onst, an’ you’re a waitin’. Let me sec. How long is it since you finished eatin’?”
“O, only a few minutes,” said Jiggins, nervously.
“Well, I supposed so. Ye-ry well,” repeated Mrs. Pratt, in the tone of a cool physician, who feels gratified when a disease takes the form he suspected, even when it is attended with pain and danger to the patient. “Yes, that’s it; and now can you remember how long a time it was after Pat had done eating the raw clams to the fust pain he felt?”
The boys looked in fearful anxiety at one another, and then all eyes turned to Jiggins. He turned pale, and all the expression of his face changed to one dismal blank.