Dr. Fisher pulled up the old horse sharply, tossed the reins over the dashboard and leaped out over the wheel.
“Hulloa, David!” he cried, pushing back the branches. “Well—well!”
Davie shivered and shrank back further under the bush.
“Oh, Joey is going to get well,” said the little Doctor cheerily, poking his big spectacles in under the branches.
David sprang up and threw his arms convulsively around the little Doctor’s neck.
“There—there—good gracious, you hug worse’n a bear, Dave,” cried Dr. Fisher, bundling him up in his arms. “Now then, hop in with you!” He deposited him on the old leather seat, and jumped into the gig beside him. “We must get you home to your mother before you can say Jack Robinson!”
If David’s legs had a hard time of it when Joel was so sick, it was nothing to the way they had to run now that the dark cloud had passed over the little brown house.
Up and down the loft stairs where Joel tossed impatiently on the shake-down, Davie toiled to suit Joel’s demands, who wanted something every minute. At last Mrs. Pepper interfered. “You mustn’t, Joey,” she said; “Davie will be worn out.”
“I’ve been sick,” declared Joel, with an important air, “and Dave likes to get things.”
“Yes, I do,” said Davie eagerly, and lifting a pale face. “Do let me, Mamsie.”