“Don’t you want your apple sauce?” whispered Kid. Small shook his head and pushed it over to him. Later Kid came in for Small’s cake and Small watched the transfer with scowling brow. “Thanks,” Kid murmured.
“You can thank those beastly tablets,” Small growled. “My mouth’s all drawn up and everything tastes like—like paregoric! I hope that cake chokes you!”
After supper Bert waylaid Kid on the stairs. “Here they are,” he announced, seeking to thrust a box of Tinkham’s tablets into Kid’s elusive hand.
“What?” asked Kid in surprise.
“Why, those old tablets. You didn’t think I wanted them, did you?”
Kid looked pained. “Why not? They’re the best things you could have, Bert, and if you start in taking them now your cold will be all gone by morning.”
“I haven’t got any cold,” denied Bert.
“Then why do you keep blowing your nose all the time?”
“What nose? I mean——”