Tom Playfair: Or Making a Start

“TOMMY!”


No answer.


“Tommy—do you hear me? Get up this moment, sir. Do you think this house is a hotel? Everyone’s at breakfast except yourself.”


Miss Meadow, Tom Playfair’s maternal aunt, stood without the door of Master Playfair’s sleeping apartment. She paused for a moment, partly to gain her breath (having come up three pairs of stairs to arouse Tom) and partly to await some reply from our sleeping hero.


The silence, however, was simply emphasized by the ticking of the great clock in the hall.


“Tommy!” she resumed at length, in a higher key, “do you hear me?”


Her strained ears caught the dull sound as of someone turning lazily in his bed. “Now you’re awake, sir, jump right up, and dress for your breakfast.”


“Sho! scat!” came a yawning voice from the room.


“Dear me!” cried poor Miss Meadow, “the boy doesn’t mind me in the least.”


“What’s the trouble, Jane?” queried Mr. Playfair, who just then issued from his room.


“I can’t get that Tommy out of bed. He’s growing worse every day, George. Last week he was late for school five times.”


“I’ll fix that, Jane,” said Mr. Playfair. And he took one step toward Tom’s sleeping-room, when the door of that apartment opened a few inches, discovering a young face peering anxiously from beneath a mass of tangled hair.


“Pa,” said the apparition, “I’m dressing just as fast as I know how. I heard you, auntie, and I’m coming right away.”