“Id’z my lungz, I dell you! Double pneumonia. Leabe me to my fade, and forged me, Polly!” tears rose in his eyes at this pitiful picture of his lonely demise.
But Polly was practical, and stubborn to a degree. She refused to go, and when Mrs. Latimer came back, she told her that Tom ought to be in bed and given a great big dose of quinine—then he’d be all right in the morning.
“That’s exactly what we planned to do, Polly,” said Mrs. Latimer. “I sent Katrina to the drugstore for the pills, just now. But you run back and enjoy yourself, dear, as you can do nothing for Tom. He’s like all men—as grouchy as a bear with a sore head, the minute anything ails them.”
His mother laughed, and Polly stood smiling. Tom fumed. “Was this all the sympathy he was to win for his self-appointed martyrdom?”
Just as he had lost the last vestige of hope in life, Polly said to his mother: “I haven’t seen Tom before, today, to wish him a merry Christmas and to give him my present.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Latimer, wisely, and slipped from the room, closing the hall door very quietly after her.
Tom opened one eye and began to wonder if it was worth while—this living business? When Polly smiled so angelically upon him, in spite of his ludicrous pose and appearance, he thought he might make one more trial of temporal existence.
Then Polly said, “I am sorry I could not reach you by telephone today, Tom. I had a little surprise for you, that I’m sure you will like. Shall I show you now?”
“Maybe it ids egsadtly wha’d I wads plannig to ags you?” said Tom, sitting up with interest, and forgetting the tub of hot water with his feet slowly par-boiling in it.
“Here it is. Isn’t it neat and business-like?” said Polly, as she handed him a small paste-board card.