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: "Oh, 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 ?" "Oh, auntie, I'm--" "What's the matter with you--what is the matter with you, child ?" "Oh, 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.