"Father," cried Jasper, "this poor man seems very ill."
"Oh, yes," breathed Polly, pitifully, "he really is, Grandpapa." And she put out her hand to seize one of Mr. King's. "And Jasper has sent for the doctor."
"And none too soon, I should say," remarked Mr. King, grimly, with a keen glance into the old man's face. "Raise his feet a little higher, Jasper; put a pillow under them; there, that's it. Well, the doctor should be hurried up." He glanced quickly around. "Here, you boy," seeing Tom, "run as you never have run before, and tell the doctor to come quickly."
"There isn't any need," began Tom.
"Do you go!" commanded Mr. King, pointing to the door. And Tom went.
"Father, that boy is his grandson," said Jasper, pointing to the sick man.
Mr. King stared into Jasper's face, unable to make a reply.
"He is," declared Polly. "Oh, Grandpapa, he really is!" Then she buried her flushed face up against Mr. King's arm.
"There is no need to waste words," said Mr. King, finding his tongue. "There, there, Polly, child," fondling her brown head, "don't feel badly. I'm sure you've done all you could."
"'Twas Jasper; he did it all—I couldn't do anything," said Polly.