“But I don’t think she feels anxious,” said Phonny. “She will forget all about it pretty soon. However, if you think it is best, I will carry my hatchet in and give it to her. We can get along very well with the draw shave.”
“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I do think it is best; and now I am going to finish mending the wheel-barrow.”
“Well,” said Phonny, “and I will go and carry the hatchet in to my mother.”
Phonny accordingly took the hatchet and went sauntering slowly along out of the shop.
In a few minutes, Stuyvesant heard an outcry in the yard. It sounded like a cry of pain and terror, from Phonny. Stuyvesant threw down his work, and ran out to see what was the matter.
He found Phonny by the woodpile, where he had stopped a moment to chop a stick with his hatchet, and had cut himself. He was down upon the ground, clasping his foot with his hands, and crying out as if in great pain.
“Oh, Stuyvesant,” said he. “I have cut my foot. Oh, I have cut my foot, most dreadfully.”
“Let me see,” said Stuyvesant, and he came to the place. Phonny raised his hands a little, from his foot, so as to let Stuyvesant see, but continued crying, with pain and terror.
“Oh dear me!” said he. “What shall I do?—Oh dear me!”
Stuyvesant looked. All that he could see, however, was a gaping wound in Phonny’s boot, just over the ankle, and something bloody beneath.