Suddenly, a compound shriek arose from the lawn, and all the ladies sprang to their feet. I followed their example, setting my teeth firmly and viciously, hoping that whichever nephew had been hurt was badly hurt. We saw Toddie running toward us with one hand in his mouth, while Budge ran beside him, exclaiming:—
"Poor little Toddie! Don't cry! Does it hurt you awful? Never mind—Uncle Harry'll comfort you. Don't cry, Toddie, de-ar!"
Both boys reached the piazza steps, and clambered up, Budge exclaiming:—
"O Uncle Harry, Toddie put his fingers in the little wheels of the cutter-grass, an' it turned just the least little biddie, an' it hurted him."
But Toddie ran up to me, clasped my legs and sobbed: "Sing 'Toddie one boy day.'"
My blood seemed to freeze. I could have choked that dreadful child, suffering though he was. I stooped over him, caressed him, promised him candy, took out my watch and gave it to him to play with, but he returned to his original demand. A lady—the homeliest in the party—suggested that she should bind up his hand, and I inwardly blessed her, but he reiterated his request for "Toddie one boy day," and sobbed pitifully.
"What does he mean?" asked Miss Mayton.
"He wants Uncle Harry to sing, 'Charley boy one day,'" explained Budge; "he always wants that song when he's hurt anyway."
"Oh, do sing it to him, Mr. Burton," pleaded Miss Mayton; and all the other ladies exclaimed, "Oh, do!"
I wrathfully picked him up in my arms and hummed the air of the detested song.