David looked up and tried to speak. Oh, if Mamsie were only here! Then his head fell down on the dusty road.
“Look at that boy, you old scoundrel!” roared Thompson, cuffing Old Man Peters wherever he got a good chance. Then he flung him to the middle of the road. “Lie there till I can ’tend to you.” But the old farmer preferred to attend to himself, and without waiting to pick up his hat that had fallen off in the scuffle, he slunk off as fast as he conveniently could.
“Don’t hurt him,” begged Davie feebly, as Thompson bent over him. “Oh, I want Mamsie!”
“You’re a-goin’ to her—I’ll take you.” The young man lifted him up to his shoulder, Davie still clinging to the basket. “Where did he hurt you?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m not hurt much,” said Davie, trying not to cry.
Jim Thompson set his teeth hard. “Here, give me that basket,” and holding Davie fast by one arm, he strode off, first kicking Old Man Peters’s hat into a neighboring field where it landed in a bog.
“Mamsie—somebody’s coming, and he’s got a big bundle—how funny,” cried Polly, looking out of the window.
“A pedlar, most likely,” said Mrs. Pepper, over in the window, trying to finish a coat to go back to Mr. Atkins at the store. The measles were making it extra hard to keep the wolf from the door.
“Well, he won’t sell anything here,” said Polly with a laugh, and running to the old green door. “Why—” as she flung it open.
It was all over in a minute, and Mrs. Pepper had her boy in her arms. Davie trying to say, “I’m not much hurt,” and Polly running for the camphor bottle, while Jim Thompson set down the basket on the floor, where it rolled over and out flew the “quince sass” from the protecting folds of the coat.