“No,” said Polly, “it's all gone; I gave the last piece to Phronsie the day she was taken sick.”
“Oh, dear,” said Joel, “everything's gone.”
“Well, do go on, Joe, do.”
“And—then they had dinner; and Mr. Peters said, 'Hasn't that boy gone home yet?' and Mrs. Peters said, 'no'—and he called me in, and asked me why I didn't run along home; and I said, Phronsie was sick, and Ben had the squeezles—”
“The what?” said Polly.
“The squeezles,” repeated Joel, irritably; “that's what you said.”
“It's measles, Joey,” corrected Mrs. Pepper; “never mind, I wouldn't feel bad.”
“Well, they all laughed, and laughed, and then I said you told me to wait till I did get the money.”
“Oh, Joe,” began Mrs. Pepper, “you shouldn't have told 'em so—what did he say?”
“Well, he laughed, and said I was a smart boy, and he'd see; and Mirandy said, 'do pay him, pa, he must be tired to death'—and don't you think, he went to a big desk in the corner, and took out a box, and 'twas full most of money—lots! oh! and he gave me mine—and—that's all; and I'm tired to death.” And Joel flung himself down on the floor, expanded his legs as only Joel could, and took a comfortable roll.