The boy's face saddened. "I guess I can't ever come," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because I was hurt so badly. I don't think I'm going to get well."
"Oh, yes, you will!" asserted Polly. "Of course Dr. Dudley will cure you! Goodness! You ought to have seen how I was all smashed up! But Dr. Dudley cured me—he can cure anybody!"
"He can?" echoed David, a little doubtfully. "How 'd you get hurt? Were you run over?"
"Yes, by a building," Polly laughed. "Only it did n't run; it fell. I was 'way up on the third floor, and all of a sudden it went—just like that!" Polly's little hands dropped flat in her lap. "I heard a great noise, and felt myself going, and I remember I clutched hold of Uncle Gregory. Then I did n't know another thing till I woke up over in that corner. See that bed with the dark-haired little girl in it, the third from the end? That was my cot."
"Was your leg broken?" asked David, in a most interested tone.
"Yes, my leg was broken, and my hip was discolated (Polly sometimes twisted her long words a little), and my ankle was hurt, and two ribs, and, oh, lots of things! Doctor says now that he really did n't think I'd ever walk again—I mean, without crutches."
"And you're not lame a bit?" David returned incredulously.
"Not a mite, not the least mite!" Polly assured him.