So I wasn't afraid of Doc Wolfert blabbin'. I knowed the worst, and, like everybody else, I wanted somebody to tell me it wasn't so bad as I thought.
I nailed Doc as he come out. I backed him up against a porch pillar and conversed with him right there. I wanted to know just how bad it was. I wanted to know what hope there was, if any.
“Doc,” I said—and I was blessed glad I had a beard so he couldn't see the quivers in my chin—“she's terrible undersized, ain't she?”
“Hum!” says Doc. “You might call her small or you mightn't. I've seen 'em bigger, and I 've seen 'em smaller. I've seen 'em all sizes.”
I couldn't see much help in that. “Doc,” I said, tremblin', “she won't always be so—so dwarfed like, will she? She'll grow—some?”
“Probably,” says Doc. “I'd hate to say she wouldn't.”
I groaned. I had to.
“Ain't her head a little off shape, Doc?” I stammered out. I guess the shape of the head had worried me most of all. It wasn't just what I'd known good heads to be.
“You think so?” asked Doc, absent like.
“Don't you?” I went back at him.