“What’s that?” cried Doctor Fisher, pulling Dobbin up suddenly, to look into Polly’s face; “what are you talking of, child?”
“Oh, the cross cat,” said Polly, “at that house.” Then she told the whole story, and Doctor Fisher made Dobbin stop entirely while he hung the old leather reins over his arm and examined Phronsie’s fat little neck to his satisfaction.
“That will be all right in two or three days,” he declared, “so you won’t know a cat ever touched you, Phronsie.” And then he picked off the reins from his arm and clacked to Dobbin, and away they went faster than ever.
“Oh, I do wish we could keep the baby,” said Polly, in a minute; “we could put her in the tub, and I’d wash her and comb her hair, and she’d be real pretty.” And she pulled down the dirty calico gown in a motherly way.
“Oh, no, I’m going to wash her, Polly,” said Phronsie, in alarm, crowding up as closely as she could to the two; “she’s my baby, and I’m going to do it.”
“Well, I don’t see how either of you can do it,” said Doctor Fisher. “Your mother ought not to take her. No, I must get some other place—”
“Perhaps Mamsie will,” said Polly, quickly, with an awful feeling at the mere thought of having the baby go anywhere else. “I’ll take care of her.”
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, in a loud, injured tone, “I’m going to take care of her all by myself. She’s my baby.”
“Well, never mind,” said Doctor Fisher, bursting into a laugh; “we’ll fix it somehow. There, now, go on, Dobbin, and let’s get this baby settled somewhere.”
And as good luck would have it, as little Doctor Fisher hopped out at the post-office to get the letter started to Mrs. Granniss’s sister without delay, who should come along but Mrs. Pepper, just starting home with a fresh bundle of coats Mr. Atkins had given her to make.