“Oh, I forgot,” said the man, “she was blind.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried David in a sharp little cry, and he tried to spring from the barrel. Oh, couldn’t he get home to Polly, and hold her close and forget that she had ever had her eyes tied up! Then the tears came.
Deacon Blodgett laid both large hands on the small lad. “Well, Davie, you know she wasn’t blind,” he said in a hearty voice.
“No, she wasn’t,” said Davie, smiling through his tears.
“Now tell how the stove got in,” said Jenny’s mother, with a black look for the man who had said “blind.”
“Yes, tell us,” they all took it up.
“Well, we were playing Old Father Dubbin,” Davie had wiped his tears on the big handkerchief that Deacon Blodgett laid in his lap, “and Polly she was ‘Old Father Dubbin,’” then he laughed, “and she had almost caught Joel, when we heard an awful big noise out in the kitchen, and Joel said he was going out there.”
“I reckoned you wouldn’t keep Joel in,” laughed one of the men.
“Oh, he didn’t run out,” Davie hurried to say, and he shook his light waves of hair convincingly. “Joel stopped wanting to go out when Polly said ‘No, you mustn’t—Mamsie said we were to stay here.’ And then Ben came in. Mamsie kept him in the kitchen, and he had a big stick—oh, as big as this,” David spread his arms, “and he said he wanted to be Old Father Dubbin, and Polly said she was glad, and Ben pounded on the floor, and chased us all, and I got under Mamsie’s bed, and Phronsie, too.” Here Davie gave a gleeful laugh that showed all his little white teeth. “And Joel chased Ben and tried to get the stick, and Polly laughed and clapped her hands and said, ‘Old Father Dubbin will get you, Joey!’—and it was awfully nice.” Davie drew a long breath and clasped his hands ecstatically.
“Well, now, the stove,” Jenny’s mother pressed closer; “tell about Dr. Fisher’s stove.”