“Don’t—don’t!” screamed David, sitting up. “Oh, Mrs. Blodgett, don’t!”
“Yes, I’m goin’, Davie, an’ you better come along of me.” She held out her hand. “Your ma would want you to.” “’Tain’t half so bad as to let him stay here an’ be scared to death in them bushes,” she reflected.
“Would Mamsie want me to?” asked Davie, blinking at her through the tears that ran down his cheeks.
“She certainly would,” declared Mrs. Blodgett. “O my!” she cried, pricking up her ears. “Well, you wait here a minute. I’ll come back for you.”
She darted down the road, if such locomotion as she set up could be called darting, and presently she saw just ahead Dr. Fisher’s old gig.
“Wait!” she tried to scream, but her tongue flapped up to the roof of her mouth and stuck there, as she panted on.
A farmer’s boy in an old wagon coming around the corner thrust his fingers in his mouth and gave such a whistle that the little doctor thrust out his head.
“Lady wants you—she’s a-runnin’ fit to split,” said the boy, pointing to the Deacon’s wife pounding the dust up dreadfully at every step.
Dr. Fisher pulled up the old horse and hopped out of the gig.
“Good gracious, is that you, Mrs. Blodgett!” he exclaimed, hurrying to meet her.