Davie sprang from the bench and hopped close to the little old man still cobbling away.
“Oh, I must go,” he cried. “Do give me my shoe, Mr. Beebe,” holding out a frantic hand.
“There, there, Davie,” said the little shoemaker, “you wait a minute, an’ I’ll have your shoe done.”
“Isn’t it done enough?” said Davie, all in a tremble, “please, dear Mr. Beebe, let me go!”
“What’s th’ matter with th’ boy?” cried Mrs. Goodsell, “I never see anybody act so.”
“Don’t you fret yourself, Mis Goodsell,” said Mr. Beebe, “I’ll take care o’ Davie. You set an’ be comf’table.”
“Well, I can’t be comf’table—who could be, seein’ him carryin’ on so?” said the big woman.
Mr. Beebe, not hearing her, for he was now divided over his attempts to soothe Davie, and to see the little shoe repaired as it should be, bent his gray head to hear Davie, who was by this time in a frenzy to get home, and as he kept saying, “be with Phronsie.”
“So you shall, Davie, in a minute or two, an’ don’t you worry, th’ organ man can’t get by your house in a long while with that thing on his back. And mebbe he ain’t goin’ that way at all.”
“Oh, he will—he will!” cried Davie, in his terror guilty of contradicting, and he beat his hands together and hopped from one foot to the other in his distress.