Don’t, Tom — oh, don’t. Maybe — ”
“I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell ’em so, Sid. And Sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that’s come to town, and tell her — ”
But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.
Sid flew downstairs and said:
“Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom’s dying!”
“Dying!”
“Yes’m. Don’t wait — come quick!”
“Rubbage! I don’t