“It’s a monolopy—I mean a monopoly! We’ve got a monopoly! Where’s everybody? Hey, Aunt Jamsiah, where are you? Where’s Uncle Eb? Hurry up and make some doughnuts? There’s a detour! Cars—hundreds of cars—from the highway—they’re coming along the road. You ought to see. Where’s the ice-pick? Can I have some lemons? Are there any cookies left? I left two on the plate last night. Where’s the sugar so I can—”
He paused in his frenzy of haste and enthusiasm as Aunt Jamsiah opened the sitting room door, very quietly and seriously.
“Shh, come in here, Walter,” she said.
Her manner, kind, gentle, but serious, disconcerted Pee-wee and chilled his enthusiasm. The very fact that he was summoned into the sitting room seemed ominous for that holy of holies was never used; not more than once or twice in Pee-wee’s recollection had his own dusty shoes stood upon that sacred oval-shaped rag carpet. Never before had he found himself within reaching distance of that plush album that stood on its wire holder on the marble table.
This solemn apartment was the only room in the house that had a floor covering and the fact that Pee-wee could not hear his own foot-falls agitated him strangely. Uncle Eb sat in the corner near the melodeon looking strangely out of place in his ticking overalls.
“Is—is she—dead?” Pee-wee whispered fearfully.
“Sit down, Walter,” said Aunt Jamsiah; “no, she isn’t dead, she’s better.”
Uncle Eb said nothing, only watched Pee-wee keenly.
Pee-wee seated himself, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Walter,” said his aunt, “something very serious has happened and I’m going to ask one or two questions. You will tell me the truth, won’t you?”