Whatever were the doubts Mrs. Woggs had in the morning about her son's sickness, she had none now. His pale face and blue lips were evidences of his condition.
Taking him by the hand, she led him upstairs, and put him into bed. Then she called Dr. Woggs, who was in his library, to come upstairs and see him.
"Poor boy; he is real sick," said his mother, as the doctor entered the room. "He is just as pale as death, and could hardly walk upstairs."
"He is sick at the stomach, just as he was this morning. It was too bad to send him to school when he felt so sick. I knew he was ill then."
"He wasn't very bad this morning," said the doctor, who did not know what to make of it.
"He was real sick then, and I knew he was. It was too bad to make him go to school," added the fond mother.
"But I didn't make him go to school," replied Dr. Woggs. "I was only going to give him some medicine to make him better."
The cigar had done its work; and it operated upon him just as that nasty yellow powder would if he had taken it.
"What's this?" said the doctor, after the contents of Tommy's stomach had been thrown up. "What have you been doing, Tommy?"