'
The Phoenix yawned.
'Look here,' said Anthea; 'I really have an idea. This isn't like
a common carpet. It's very magic indeed. Don't you think, if we
put Tatcho on it, and then gave it a rest, the magic part of it
might grow, like hair is supposed to do?'
'It might,' said Robert; 'but I should think paraffin would do as
well--at any rate as far as the smell goes, and that seems to be
the great thing about Tatcho.'
But with all its faults Anthea's idea was something to do, and they
did it.
It was Cyril who fetched the Tatcho bottle from father's
washhand-stand. But the bottle had not much in it.
'We mustn't take it all,' Jane said, 'in case father's hair began
to come off suddenly. If he hadn't anything to put on it, it might
all drop off before Eliza had time to get round to the chemist's
for another bottle. It would be dreadful to have a bald father,
and it would all be our fault.'
'And wigs are very expensive, I believe,' said Anthea. 'Look here,
leave enough in the bottle to wet father's head all over with in
case any emergency emerges--and let's make up with paraffin. I
expect it's the smell that does the good really--and the smell's
exactly the same.'
So a small teaspoonful of the Tatcho was put on the edges of the
worst darn in the carpet and rubbed carefully into the roots of the
hairs of it, and all the parts that there was not enough Tatcho for
had paraffin rubbed into them with a piece of flannel.
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