CHAPTER XXI.
Fritzy’s face showed traces of recent tears, but his valiant air not even tears could subdue. He stood by Dr. Winslow’s side, affectionately resting one arm across the gentleman’s shoulder, and with the other surreptitiously wiping his besmeared and stubby little nose.
The doctor tried to look grave, but the effort resulted only in a mixed expression of fun and seriousness. To his mind, small Fritzy was a “delicious child,” infinitely diverting after the many grave cares which weighed upon the heart of the country physician, to whom each patient was like an old friend, therefore to be worried over beyond a mere professional interest in an unknown patient.
The doctor was always glad of an excuse to stop at The Snuggery; but he had been exceedingly anxious that night, when he had been summoned thither.
“Luke and Fritz have been shooting folks,” was the breathless message Octave delivered, having run all the way between houses to give it.
“Shooting folks, Miss Octave! What in the name of common-sense!” and the kind face had worn an expression of terrible dismay. “Shooting whom?”
“Oh, nobody but Paula; I don’t believe they hurt her, either, but she doesn’t seem just right or she won’t talk, and—and—you’ll come right away, quick, won’t you?”
“At once. Fortunately, the brown mare is already harnessed, for I had but just come in, and had let her stand to cool off. Jump in with me, and tell me on the way all about it.”
Octave promptly obeyed, and her tongue flew fast for a few seconds. When she had finished, the doctor asked, “Has any one been really wounded?”
“I do not believe so; though Rosetta declares that Paula must be, somewhere. I think she is terribly frightened, and it has made her faint. Who wouldn’t be that, to be shot at by a couple of boys, just because you were walking in your sleep!”