“Now, what can have happened,” exclaimed the little doctor, peering out with visions of dreadful accidents flying through his mind, as the man and the horse bore down upon the gig. “Well, what’s wanted?”
“Mis’ Granniss has got hurt,” said the man, pulling up his beast so suddenly it seemed as if he must go over on his nose. “She hollered to me as I was goin’ past to tell you.”
“Sho—now, that poor woman!” exclaimed Doctor Fisher.
“Yes,” said the man; “she fell over her stove, an’ I guess she’s pretty bad.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The little doctor leaned over and took up the whip and gave Dobbin a cut, who, realizing from past experience a situation that required it, struck out his long legs so bravely that Phronsie, crowded into the middle of the seat, crowed gleefully at the pace, as she clung closely to Polly with both hands.
Doctor Fisher, slipping to the edge of the old leather seat, gripped the reins tightly. “I have to, Dobbin,” he said; “you must excuse me,” whenever he applied the whip, and at last, after many turns down the country road and an occasional uphill, there they were at their destination, and Dobbin gladly stopped to draw breath.
“You can play about here, children,” said Doctor Fisher, as he tied Dobbin fast to the worm-eaten post, and seized his medicine bag. So Polly and Phronsie hopped out of the gig, as the little doctor pranced off around the side of the house to the back door, this being evidently the best and quickest way to get into the house.
Polly drew a long breath and looked around. There wasn’t anything very pretty about the place; everything was so run down at the heel. Even the old shed tacked on to the weather-beaten dwelling had almost split apart from its connection, as if to say, “I’d rather stand alone.” And off on one side of the tiny yard where the grass sent up only occasional green spears, was a heap of broken bottles, and old tin cans, and other refuse that seemed to have been there for years and years.
“O dear me!” said Polly, under her breath. “Isn’t it beyewtiful,” hummed Phronsie, perfectly delighted; “he said we might play here, Polly.”
Polly was just going to say, “Oh, we can’t play in this dirty place, Phronsie,” when she remembered Mamsie’s words,—“Make the best of everything,”—so she brightened up. “Let’s go over there, Phronsie,” pointing across the road to a couple of old oak trees.