“An’ who’ll bring her back?” demanded the child’s sister gloomily.
“You must come with me and bring her back,” Elizabeth answered with decision. “Come quick! I tell you it’s hurting her awfully. Don’t you see how white she is?”
Peggy looked at the little face all white and drawn with pain, and surrendered.
“I’ll go,” she said meekly, and without more words, Elizabeth set off with the child in her arms. Olga followed in silence, and Peggy trailed along in the rear, but as she went she turned and shouted back to one of the boys, “Jimmy, you come along too with the wagon to bring her home in,” and presently a freckled-faced boy, with straw-coloured hair, had joined the procession. The wagon he drew was a soapbox fitted with a pair of wheels from a go-cart.
“Let me carry her, Elizabeth—she’s too heavy for you,” Olga said after a few minutes; but the child clung to Elizabeth, refusing to be transferred, and at the pressure of the little yellow head against her shoulder, Elizabeth smiled.
“I can carry her,” she said. “She’s not so very heavy. She makes me think of little Molly.”
So Elizabeth carried the child all the way, and held her still when they reached East Bassett and by rare good luck found the doctor at home. He was an old man, and over his glasses he looked up with a twinkle of amusement as the party of five trailed into his office. But the next instant he demanded abruptly,
“What ails that child?”
“It’s her arm—see?” Elizabeth said. “It’s out of joint.”
“Yes!” The doctor snapped out the word. Then his hands were on the baby’s shoulder, there was a quick skilful twist, a shriek of pain and terror from the baby, and the bone slipped into place.