"People often can't tell when they're nervous themselves; but your Papa and I have been getting a little anxious about you, dear, and so I got this medicine for you." "WHERE'D you get it ?" he demanded.
Mrs.Schofield set the bottle down and moved toward him, insinuatingly extending the full tablespoon.
"Here, dear," she said; "just take this little spoonful, like a goo--" "I want to know where it came from," he insisted darkly, again stepping backward.
"Where ?" she echoed absently, watching to see that nothing was spilled from the spoon as she continued to move toward him.

"Why, I was talking to old Mrs.Wottaw at market this morning, and she said her son Clark used to have nervous trouble, and she told me about this medicine and how to have it made at the drug store.

She told me it cured Clark, and--" "I don't want to be cured," Penrod said, adding inconsistently, "I haven't got anything to be cured of." "Now, dear," Mrs.Schofield began, "you don't want your papa and me to keep on worrying about--" "I don't care whether you worry or not," the heartless boy interrupted.
"I don't want to take any horrable ole medicine.

What's that grass and weeds in the bottle for ?" Mrs.Schofield looked grieved.

"There isn't any grass and there aren't any weeds; those are healthful herbs." "I bet they'll make me sick." She sighed.