"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. "Penrod, we're trying to make you well."
"But I AM well, I tell you!"
"No, dear; your papa's been very much troubled about you. Come, Penrod; swallow this down and don't make such a fuss about it.
It's just for your own good."
And she advanced upon him again, the spoon extended toward his lips. It almost touched them, for he had retreated until his back was against the wall-paper. He could go no farther; but he evinced his unshaken repugnance by averting his face.
"What's it taste like?" he demanded.
"It's not unpleasant at all," she answered, poking the spoon at his mouth. "Mrs. Wottaw said Clark used to be very fond of it. It doesn't taste like ordinary medicine at all,' she said."
"How often I got to take it?" Penrod mumbled, as the persistent spoon sought to enter his mouth. "Just this once?"
"No, dear; three times a day."
"I won't do it!"
"Penrod!" She spoke sharply. "You swallow this down and stop making such a fuss. I can't be all day. Hurry."