“That it does,” cried Joel, in huge delight, and raised back to his self-esteem by the quiet poise of the girl beside him, who evidently meant to take everything as it had been before his cruel and unlucky speech. “She’s one girl in a thousand for sense and a good heart,” said Joel to himself many times on the drive. “Nobody else but Polly and Phronsie could have done it.”
When they reached Hingham, as they did in good time, it was an easy matter to find Abiel Babbidge’s house. Everybody knew him, and could tell the old yellow house, run down at the heel, as it were, set back from the side road. All around it lay one of the New England farms, whose principal crop seemed to be stones, which, if removed, would leave not much else. “Good gracious me!” ejaculated old Mr. King, as Phronsie turned the bay up the scraggly wagon-path to the door.
The whole procession came to a halt. “Phronsie,” said Grandpapa, “you’d better ask to see Mrs. Babbidge. I’ll tackle him if he is home.”
“Shall I, Grandpapa?” asked Phronsie, getting out.
“Oh, let me!” howled Elyot, trying to spring off from the drag. “I want to see my nice Mr. Babbidge.”
“And me too,” cried Barby; “let me too!”
King was consumed with envy, and so was Johnny Fargo, because they had no former acquaintance to plead. “I wouldn’t,” he said, laying a restraining hand on Elyot’s jacket.
“You let me alone,” cried Elyot crossly, and twitching himself free. “You don’t know my Mr. Babbidge. Oh, do let me get down!”
“So you shall, dear,” said Polly, riding up to the side of the drag, “and Barby. Run along now, chickens,” as somebody lifted Barby down and set her on the ground, “and call your Mr. Babbidge out. We all want to see him.”
Thereupon King and Johnny screamed for permission to get down, which being accorded, they whooped off also, and disappeared around the house in the direction of the dilapidated barn.