Joel bared a brawny arm, and viewed it with affection, then swung it out for her to see.
“And just think, it was only a week ago yesterday, and you were picked up with a big cut on your head, and we all thought you dead for ever so long,” mourned Mrs. Benson.
“Well, I wasn’t dead; and is that any reason for being mewed up forever, Mrs. Benson?” asked Joel. “Nonsense! my old head is all ready for another crack.”
“Heaven forbid!” cried the little old lady, stopping the wringing, to run around the foot of the bed, and take Joel’s black curls in her hands and kiss them over and over.
“Such good nursing as I’ve had, Mrs. Benson!” exclaimed Joel, who liked immensely all this petting. “Jim, you and I will long remember this, won’t we, old fellow?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jim heartily.
“There!” said Joel, swinging himself up to his full height at last, and marching across the room. “I’m as good as new, made over, and patched up, and warranted. Now, Jim, get me a barber, and we’ll have all this mop off in double quick time.” He shook back the black waves over his forehead.
“Oh, sir!” cried the little old lady in the greatest distress, “don’t touch those beautiful curls! I wouldn’t have one of ’em cut for anything.”
“There!” said Joel, marching across the room. “I’m as good as new, made over, and patched up, and warranted.”