“Good afternoon,” said Gypsy, feeling a little embarrassed, and not knowing exactly what to say, now she was up there.
“Good arternoon,” said Grandmother Littlejohn, with a groan.
“I heard you groan out in the street,” said Gypsy, rushing to the point at once; “I came up to see what was the matter.”
“Matter?” said the old woman sharply, “I fell down stairs and broke my ankle, that’s the matter, an’clock I wonder the whole town hain’t heerd me holler,—I can’t sleep day nor night with the pain, an’clock it’s matter enough, I think.”
“I’m real sorry,” said Gypsy.
Mrs. Littlejohn broke into a fresh spasm of groaning at this, and seemed to be in such suffering, that it made Gypsy turn pale to hear her.
“Haven’t you had a doctor?” she asked, compassionately.
“Laws yes,” said the old woman. “Had a doctor! I guess I have, a young fellar who said he was representative from somewhere from Medical Profession, seems to me it war, but I never heerd on’t, wharever it is, an’clock he with his whiskers only half growed, an’clock puttin’clock of my foot into a wooden box, an’clock murderin’clock of me—I gave him a piece of my mind, and he hain’t come nigh me since, and I won’t have him agin noways.”
“But they always splinter broken limbs,” said Gypsy.
“Splinters?” cried the old woman; “I tell ye I fell down stairs! I didn’t get no splinters in.”