Mrs. Honey. So glad you did! It doesn't seem to have done him any harm.
Mrs. Horn. Quite the contrary. And indeed, he couldn't help being the better for it; you understand so thoroughly how to make children happy, dear Mrs. Honeybun.
Mrs. Honey. It's delightful of you to say so; I try my best, but one can't always——Last year we had a conjurer, and it was only when he'd begun that we found out he was helplessly intoxicated.
Mrs. Horn. How disagreeable for you! But this time everything has been quite perfect!
Mrs. Honey. Well, I really think there has been no——Good gracious! I'm sure somebody is being suffocated! Did you hear that?
[From the core of the heap proceeds a sound at which every mother's heart quakes—a smothered cough ending in a long-drawn and ominous "oo-ook.'
Mrs. Horn. Depend upon it, that's whooping-cough! Tommy, come here this minute. (Tommy emerges, crimson and crowing lustily; the mothers collect their offspring in dismay). Oh! Tommy, Tommy, don't tell me it's you! It—it can't be that, dear Mrs. Honeybun; he's been nowhere where he could possibly——You naughty boy, you know you are only pretending. Don't let me hear that horrid noise again.
Tommy (injured). But, mummy, really I wasn't——
[He justifies himself by producing a series of whoops with an unmistakably genuine ring.
Mrs. Horn. I think it's only a rather severe attack of hiccoughs, dear Mrs. Honeybun; but still, perhaps—just to be on the safe side—I'd better——