Young Little _was_ clever. At seven he had constructed a telescope; at
nine, a flying-machine. At ten he saved a valuable life.
Norwood Park was the adjacent estate,—a lordly domain dotted with red
deer and black trunks, but scrupulously kept with graveled roads as
hard and blue as steel. There Little was strolling one summer morning,
meditating on a new top with concealed springs. At a little distance
before him he saw the flutter of lace and ribbons. A young lady, a
very young lady,—say of seven summers,—tricked out in the crying
abominations of the present fashion, stood beside a low bush. Her
nursery-maid was not present, possibly owing to the fact that John the
footman was also absent.
Suddenly Little came towards her. “Excuse me, but do you know what
those berries are?” He was pointing to the low bush filled with dark
clusters of shining—suspiciously shining—fruit.
“Certainly; they are blueberries.”
“Pardon me; you are mistaken. They belong to quite another family.”
Miss Impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three feet
nine and a half inches), and, curling an eighth of an inch of scarlet
lip, said scornfully, “_Your_ family, perhaps.”
Faraday Little smiled in the superiority of boyhood over girlhood.
“I allude to the classification. That plant is the belladonna, or deadly
nightshade. Its alkaloid is a narcotic poison.”
Sauciness turned pale. “I—have—just—eaten—some!” And began to
whimper. “Oh dear, what shall I do?” Then did it, i. e., wrung her small
fingers, and cried.
“Pardon me one moment.” Little passed his arm around her neck, and with
his thumb opened widely the patrician-veined lids of her sweet blue
eyes. “Thank Heaven, there is yet no dilation of the pupil; it is not
too late!” He cast a rapid glance around. The nozzle and about three
feet of garden hose lay near him.
“Open your mouth, quick!”
It was a pretty, kissable mouth. But young Little meant business. He put
the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go.
“Now, don’t move.”
He wrapped his handkerchief around a hoop-stick. Then he inserted both
in the other end of the stiff hose. It fitted snugly. He shoved it in
and then drew it back.
Nature abhors a vacuum. The young patrician was as amenable to this law
as the child of the lowest peasant. She succumbed. It was all over in a
minute. Then she burst into a small fury.
“You nasty, bad—_ugly_ boy.”
Young Little winced, but smiled.
“Stimulants,” he whispered to the frightened nurserymaid, who
approached; “good-evening.” He was gone.