“The goldfish are dead!” Harry said, standing soberly by the bed. “They are all dead with their stummicks turned up.”
I sat up. My head ached violently.
“They can’t be dead, old chap.” I was feeling about for my kimono, but I remembered that when I had found my way back to the nursery after my fright on the back stairs I had lain down in my uniform. I crawled out, hardly able to stand. “We gave them fresh water yesterday, and——”
I had got to the aquarium. Harry was right. The little darting flames of pink and gold were still. They floated about, rolling gently as Freddie prodded them with a forefinger, dull eyed, pale bellies upturned. In his cage above the little parrot watched out of a crooked eye.
I ran to the medicine closet in the bathroom. Freddie had a weakness for administering medicine. I had only just rescued the parrot from the result of his curiosity and a headache tablet the day before.
“What did you give them?” I demanded.
“Bread,” said Freddie stoutly.
“Only bread?”
“Dirty bread,” Harry put in. “I told him it was dirty.”
“Where did you get it?”