Mr Twit, you see, had been just as clever with the chair as he'd been with the walking-stick. Every night when he had gone downstairs and stuck a little bit extra on to the stick, he had done the same to the four legs of Mrs Twit's chair.
'Just look at you sitting there in your same old chair,' he cried, 'and you've shrunk so much your feet are dangling in the air!'
Mrs Twit went white with fear.
'You've got the shrinks!' cried Mr Twit, pointing his finger at her like a pistol. 'You've got them badly! You've got the most terrible case of shrinks I've ever seen!'
Mrs Twit became so frightened she began to dribble. But Mr Twit, still remembering the worms in his spaghetti, didn't feel sorry for her at all. 'I suppose you know what happens to you when you get the shrinks?' he said.
'What?' gasped Mrs Twit. 'What happens?'
'Your head SHRINKS into your neck...
'And your neck SHRINKS into your body...
'And your body SHRINKS into your legs...
And your legs SHRINK into your feet. And in the end there's nothing left except a pair of shoes and a bundle of old clothes.'
'I can't bear it!' cried Mrs Twit.
'It's a terrible disease,' said Mr Twit. 'The worst in the world.'
'How long have I got?' cried Mrs Twit. 'How long before I finish up as a bundle of old clothes and a pair of shoes?'
Mr Twit put on a very solemn face. At the rate you're going,' he said, shaking his head sadly 'I'd say not more than ten or eleven days.'
'But isn't there anything we can do?' cried Mrs Twit.
'There's only one cure for the shrinks,' said Mr Twit.
'Tell me!' she cried. 'Oh, tell me quickly!'
'We'll have to hurry!' said Mr Twit.
'I'm ready. I'll hurry! I'll do anything you say!' cried Mrs Twit.
'You won't last long if you don't,' said Mr Twit, giving her another grizzly grin.
'What is it I must do?' cried Mrs Twit, clutching her cheeks.
'You've got to be stretched,' said Mr Twit.
Mrs Twit Gets a Stretching
Mr Twit led Mrs Twit outdoors where he had everything ready for the great stretching.
He had one hundred balloons and lots of string.
He had a gas cylinder for filling the balloons.
He had fixed an iron ring into the ground.
'Stand here,' he said, pointing to the iron ring. He then tied Mrs Twit's ankles to the iron ring.
When that was done, he began filling the balloons with gas. Each balloon was on a long string and when it was filled with gas it pulled on its string, trying to go up and up. Mr Twit tied the ends of the strings to the top half of Mrs Twit's body. Some he tied round her neck, some under her arms, some to her wrists and some even to her hair.
Soon there were fifty coloured balloons floating in the air above Mrs Twit's head.