“Whoa—there—Great Saint Peter!” shouted somebody at him. Davie was so blind with the drops of perspiration running down his face that he couldn’t see, and besides, by that time his small legs were so used to running that they kept on, even after the young man in the top buggy had pulled up in astonishment.
“Ain’t you ever goin’ to stop?” roared the young man, leaning out of the buggy and staring at him.
“I can’t,” panted Davie, pausing a moment.
“What’s th’ matter? Goin’ for th’ doctor?”
“I’m goin’ for Mamsie,” said Davie, rushing on.
“Hold on! Who you’re goin’ for?” roared the young man.
“Mamsie,” panted Davie, whirling around.
“I d’no what in th’ blazes that is,” the young man took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, what are you goin’ for, lickety-split like that! Come here, you boy!”
Davie came slowly up to the side of the buggy. Somehow a note of hope began to sing in his small heart that maybe the young man might help.
“I let my sister get wood spilled all over her,” he said, his face working dreadfully, “and she’s lost, an’ I’m going to Mamsie.”