The twins were the funniest and dearest little couple, four years old and as roly-poly, happy-go-lucky a pair of youngsters as ever tumbled into one scrape after another and out again. They were known as Dot and Twaddles to all their friends, but, of course, they had “real” names like other children. Dot was named for an aunt, Dorothy Anna Blossom, and Twaddles was Arthur Gifford Blossom, if you please. Only no one ever called him that.
The Blossom children lived at the very tip end of the long straggling street that divided Oak Hill into two sections; in fact the Blossoms’ 11 rambling, comfortable old house was almost outside the town limits. Father Blossom owned the big foundry on the other side of the railroad.
“I’ll go in,” said Bobby, when they reached the post-office. “You wait here.”
He disappeared into the yellow wooden building that was the Oak Hill post-office, and the other Blossoms, seeing a stalled car, stopped to watch the troubles of the interurban motorman whose trolley-car was blocked by a dog that apparently wanted to be run over.
The motorman clanged his bell and a boy on the curbstone whistled shrilly, but the dog refused to budge. He only rolled over on his side.
“He’s hurt,” said Meg. “See, his foot drags. I’ll get him off.”
She dashed out into the street and bent over the poor animal. Meg was “just crazy,” her brothers said, about animals, and she was never afraid of any four-footed creature. Now, as she leaned over the little dog, he began to lick her hand with his rough tongue.
“His leg’s broken,” Meg said pityingly to the 12 conductor and the motorman who had joined her. “Oh, the poor doggie! But Doctor Maynard will fix it.”
There was a crowd now gathered on the car tracks, and Bobby, who had come out of the post-office and heard from the twins what was going on, pushed his way through to his sister.
“You hold your dress,” he directed. “I’ll lift him. There!”