"O, Tom, you ain't dying are you? Don't, Tom—O, 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 down stairs and said:
"O, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!"
"Dying!"
"Yes'm. Don't wait come quick!"
"Rubbage! I don't believe it!"
But she fled up stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the bedside she gasped out:
"You Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?"
"O, auntie, I'm—"
"What's the matter with you—what is the matter with you, child?"
"O auntie, my sore toe's mortified!"
The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together. This restored her and she said:
"Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this."
The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said:
"Aunt Polly it seemed mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my tooth at all."
"Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your tooth?"
"One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful."
"There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your mouth. Well—your tooth is loose, but you're not going to die about that. Mary get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen."
Tom said:
