“Where are you the most distressed?” questioned Miss Briggs.
“Feet. They’re scalded.”
“Your feet are a little red like your face, but they are not in the least scalded,” announced Elfreda after they had removed the boy’s shoes and stockings. “Stacy Brown, I believe you are what we, in the army, used to call a malingerer—one who feigns illness. The skin on your feet is not even broken.”
“Too bad,” murmured Emma.
“What’s too bad?” demanded Stacy.
“That you did not stay in until thoroughly done.”
“I—I don’t expect to get any sympathy,” complained Chunky, drawing on his stockings and shoes with many grunts and groans.
“Why, it isn’t even as severe as a Turkish bath,” declared Tom, who had been leaning over the opening into which Stacy had fallen.
“Come, little broiler. We are going back now. Perhaps you may have better luck next time and get done to a turn,” comforted Emma.
“It will require something hotter than Turkish bath temperature to do that,” declared Lieutenant Wingate.