“How did you mix it with the dough?—how much did you take?” Mrs. Burton demanded.
“Didn’t mix it at all,” said Toddie; “dzush pourded it on de pan azh full azh I could. You’d fink I’d have to, if you tried to eat one of my buns dat didn’t have no powder in. Gwacious! wasn’t dey hard? I couldn’t bite ’em a bit—I dzust had to swallow ’em whole.”
“Umph!” growled Mr. Burton. “And do you know who the devil—the little devil was that—”
“Harry!”
“Well, my dear, the truth appears to be this; your nephew——”
“Your nephew, Mr. Burton.”
“Well, my—our nephew, put into the oven this afternoon about enough of gunpowder to charge a six-pounder shell, and the heat of the oven gradually became too much for it.”
Toddie had listened to this conversation with an air of anxious inquiry, and at last timidly asked:
“Wazhn’t it de right kind of powder? I fought it wazh, ’cauzh it makes everyfing else light when it goezh off.”
“Do you suppose your method of training will ever prevail against that boy’s logic, my dear?” asked Mrs. Burton. “And if it won’t, what will?”