They did not scoff at her any longer.
“Well, I was nearly dead yesterday all right,” said Ginger. “I’ve never had such orful pains. Jus’ like pins running into me.”
“They were pins running into you, Ginger,” said Joan simply. “We’d better keep right away from him now or he’ll be turning us into something.”
“Like to turn him into something,” said Ginger who was still feeling vindictive towards the supposed author of his gastric trouble.
But Joan shook her head. “No,” said Joan, “we must keep right out of his way. You don’t know what they can do—magicians and people like that.”
“I do,” groaned Ginger.
So they went for a walk and held races and played Red Indians and sailed boats on the pond and climbed trees—but there was little zest in any of these pursuits. Their thoughts were with Mr. Galileo Simpkins the magician as he stirred his concoctions and uttered his spells and gazed upon his bottle victims and stuck pins into the waxen images of his foes.
“Let’s jus’ go’n look at him again,” said William, when they met in the afternoon. “We won’t go near enough for him to see us but—but let’s jus’ go’n see what he’s doin’!”
“You can,” said Ginger bitterly. “He’s not stuck pins into you an’ given you orful pains. Why, I’m still feelin’ ill with it. We had trifle again for lunch an’ I can’t eat more’n three helpin’s of it.”
“No, we’d better not go near him again,” said Joan shaking her head, her eyes wide.