The company rose with enthusiasm. “Oh, how nice!” And all the girls clapped their hands.
“Mr. Frobisher,” said Jones, dryly, “if your finger be sufficiently healed, suppose you lead off. As for me—I—have a sore throat.”
“Ah, that poor finger!” cried Alice, “how remiss in us girls not to have inquired after its health! How is the dear little thing?”
“I beg your pardon?” inquired Charley, with an innocent look; but his hands had somehow found their way behind his back.
“How is your cut finger?”
“My cut finger?”
“Yes, y-o-u-r c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r!”
“M-y c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r?” And he mimicked her imperious little gestures; at the same time looking from face to face with a sort of dazed air.
“Isn’t this a sort of conundrum?”
“No; show me your hand.”