“Do go away, child. What is wrong?”
“My froat. I want something to moisten it. It is so dry, it hurts me.”
“Go and get a drink of water.”
“Oh, my froat! Oh, my tum-tum! Oh, my froat!” said Penelope again.
Mr. Dale rose from his seat at last.
“I never was so worried in my life,” he said. “What is it, child? Out with it. What is wrong?”
Penelope managed to raise eyes brimful of tears to his face.
“If you knowed that your own little girl was suffering from bad froat and doubly-up tum-tum, and that sixpence would make her well—quite, really, truly well—wouldn’t you give it to her?” said Penelope.
“How can sixpence make you well? If you really have a sore throat and a pain we ought to send for the doctor.”
“Sixpence is much cheaper than the doctor,” said Penelope. “Sixpence will do it.”