“Well, I declare!” Little Doctor Fisher burst in upon them, his spectacles slipping to the end of his nose, as he stumbled over the rickety steps. “Bless me, I didn’t know where you had gone.”
“Oh, Doctor Fisher,” cried Polly, flying over to him, “there’s a poor baby here—a perfectly dreadful one.”
“Is the baby here?” cried Doctor Fisher, peering at the old box and its contents. Then he said, “Bless me” again and set his spectacles straight. “Where’s that boy,—his mother said he was taking care of it—”
“He’s run off,” said Polly.
“Run off!” exclaimed the little doctor. “Well, I’d like to catch him,” he added savagely.
“And he’s given me the baby,” declared Phronsie, springing up to seize Doctor Fisher’s big hand. “He has—and she’s whole mine, my very own—”
“The dickens he did!” exploded Doctor Fisher.
“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, “it’s just as bad as it can be.”
“I should think it was,” said the little doctor, gloomily. Then he pulled his long nose thoughtfully, which showed he was in great trouble in his mind.
“O dear!” breathed Polly, in the greatest distress, for it always grieved her dreadfully to see Doctor Fisher, who had saved her eyes and given her a new stove, troubled about anything.