The hot-tempered gentleman’s umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, “Harry, my boy!”
And Harry came up to him.
“Shew me your tongue, Harry,” said he.
“What for?” said Harry; “you’re not a doctor.”
“Do as I tell you,” said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as Harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. The hot-tempered gentleman sighed. “Ah!” he said in depressed tones; “I thought so!—Polly, come and let me look at yours.”
Polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers. But the hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head.
“What is it?” cried both the children. “What do you mean?” And they seized the tips of their tongues in their fingers, to feel for themselves.
But the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, “Ah! Hum!” and nodding with an air of grave foreboding.
Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head into the room. “Have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed?” he asked.