So they waited and they saw.
It was, of course, a coincidence that that night Ginger’s mother’s cook had made trifle for supper and that Ginger ate of this not wisely, but too well, and was the next morning confined to bed with what the doctor called “slight gastric trouble.”
The Outlaws called for him the next morning and were curtly informed by the housemaid (who, like Mr. Galileo Simpkins, hated all boys on principle) that Ginger was ill in bed and would not be getting up that day.
They walked away in silence.
“Well,” said Joan in triumph, “what do you think about him being a magician now?”
This time William did not say “Soppy fairy-tale stuff.”
******
Ginger returned to them, somewhat pale and wobbly, the next day. Like them he preferred to lay the blame of his enforced retirement on to Mr. Galileo Simpkins rather than upon the trifle.
“Yes, that’s what he said,” agreed Ginger earnestly. “He said ‘you wait,’ an’ then jus’ about an hour after that I began to feel orful pains. An’ I hadn’t had hardly any of that ole trifle ... well, not much, anyway; well, not too much ... well, not as much as I often have of things ... an’ I had most orful pains an’——”
“He must have made a little image of you in wax, Ginger,” said Joan with an air of deep wisdom, “and stuck pins into it. That’s what they do.... I expect he thinks you’re dead now. That’s why he said ‘You wait’!”