“Oh, if Papa Fisher were only here!” sighed Polly; then she looked at Dick. “But how nice it is that there’s such a good doctor here. You know, Father Fisher told us to send for him if anything was the matter with us. There, lay Johnny on the sofa here, and then run, Dicky, do, and get the doctor. He lives on Porter Road, the third house this way. Take the pony-cart. Dr. Phillips is his name,” she called after him; then she touched the electric bell at her elbow.
“Tell Mrs. Higby to come here at once,” said Polly to the maid, who popped in her head in obedience to the summons.
“Oh, he’s rolled off,” cried Polly, aghast.
“I must get some hartshorn,” said Polly; “he won’t stir, poor boy. I’ll run up to my room and get it.” In less time than it takes to tell it, Polly was off and back, to find Mrs. Higby just arrived in the doorway, saying, “Did you want me, Ma’am? Jane said as how one of the boys was sick.”
“O Mrs. Higby!” gasped Polly, the color beginning to come back to her cheek. “It’s Johnny—on the lounge. Here, I’ve the hartshorn,” holding up the bottle. “He was kicked by the donkey—Dick’s gone for the doctor.” All this in one breath, as they were going across the room, the good woman in advance.
“I don’t see,”—began Mrs. Higby.
“And some one must tell Mrs. Fargo,” mourned Polly, back of the ample figure. “Why—where”—for the sofa was empty.
“Oh, he’s rolled off! though how he could, I don’t see,” said Polly, aghast, and tumbling down on her knees to peer under the sofa, Mrs. Higby pulling it out from the wall to facilitate matters. “He was just as if he were dead. O Mrs. Higby! where do you suppose he is?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” declared Mrs. Higby, thoroughly alarmed; “like enough, Mrs. King, it’s flew to his head, and he’s gone crazy.”