"What's the matter, Tommy? Do you feel worse?" asked his father.
"I don't want to take any of that stuff," whined the poor little invalid.
"I know, Tommy, it isn't pleasant to take; but when we are sick, we must take something to keep us from getting any worse."
"I don't want to take it, father. It always makes me a good deal sicker than I was before—it does indeed, father."
"That's very true, my boy; but, for all that, you must take it. We very often have to make folks worse before they can be any better. It always hurts to set a broken arm or leg; but no one would think of letting it remain unset because the operation is painful."
His mother soon came with the cup of molasses, and Dr. Woggs put some of the yellow powder into it, and stirred up the mixture.
"I don't want to take it, father," cried Tommy, who was trembling with dread at the very thought of the nasty stuff.
"I can't help it, my boy. You must take it," said the doctor, in such a tone that the poor boy felt he must obey, or confess that he had told a falsehood.
"I can't take it, father," he groaned.
"Poor boy! I know it is not good; but only think how sick you are! Why, you are so bad that you cannot go to school."