“Yes, all!” ejaculated. Jiggins, his face growing at once longer and paler at the recollection of hiss sorrows.
“And you’re alive yet—all of you? Then you need never be afraid of poisons. Yes my poor Jiggins, you have been poisoned; that’s a fact, though not by clams.”
Mr. Long, who was present, had listened to all this in consternation.
“And where’s Pat?” he asked. That young gentleman’s name was Michael, but everybody called him Pat, and so did Mr. Long. “And where’s Pat?”
“In bed yet, sir.”
“Poor Pat! Has he been dosed, too?”
“Yes, sir; but he was taken worse than any of us;” and with this Jiggins went on to tell all about Pat and the raw clams.
“Dear, dear, dear!” cried Mr. Long. “He must have eaten a bushel, and all raw. Dear, dear, dear! What did he think he was made of? O, how is it possible for me to keep you all out of mischief? I go after one half of you who are in peril, and come back to find the rest of you half poisoned. But poor Pat—where is he? I must see him, for we have to start for home to-night.”
“I’ll show you, sir,” said Jiggins; and he took him to the room where Pat was. He was lying in bed, looking pale and exhausted. He greeted Mr. Long with a faint smile, and the kind-hearted teacher did his utmost to soothe the afflicted boy.