“Look here,” cried Jack, “if you talk of that disgusting brute again, I’ll—” but remembering his manners, he stopped short.
“Well,” persisted Andrew, “it has no less than twenty-eight thousand teeth.”
“What a lot of toof-ache it must have,” said Marygold, feelingly.
“But, Andrew,” questioned Phoena, seriously, “which garden slug is that? Is it the grey—”
“It’s the garden slug, I tell you,” said Andrew, impatiently, evidently not appreciating Phoena’s thirst for further knowledge.
“Yes, but there are several kinds,” said Phoena, growing eager now.
“There’s the—”
“Oh, Phoena, do look at your cup,” cried Faith, from the other end of the table, “you’ll upset your tea in another minute.”
But the warning came too late.
Carefulness at meals, or indeed at any other time, was unfortunately not dreamy Phoena’s strong point, and before Faith had finished speaking, the whole contents of her hitherto untasted cup had overflowed its borders and was trickling in a whitey brown streamlet down the table.