Mrs. Tregennis was kneeling in front of the fire, making toast. She rose and turned fiercely on her son. “I’ll about half kill ee, Tommy Tregennis,” she said, “if you come here scarin’ with such tales as they. I don’t want none of that sort of yarn here. I’ll knock ee flying!”
For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes. Then Tommy flung himself on the floor in a passion of weeping, while Mrs. Tregennis stood staring in front of her, still holding the toasting-fork in her hand.
Awkwardly, and as if ashamed, Uncle Sam edged into the kitchen.
“Don’t ee take on now, Ellen,” he admonished. “’Twill sure to be all right; it be just——”
“Of course ’twill be all right, an’ righter than right,” she interrupted, angrily. “’Tis but that fulish child. Get up, Tommy, and come an’ have your dinner, or you’m be late to school.”
Tommy still lay on the floor, his face buried in his arms.
“Get up, I tell ee, or I’ll shift ee, my son.”
Then, as there was still no movement: “If you don’t get up to wanst, Tommy Tregennis, I’ll tell your fäather the minute——”
The familiar threat ended abruptly, and Mrs. Tregennis turned away, put down the toasting-fork and filled the kettle at the sink.