"He fell," said Polly. She could say no more, but pointed up to the beam. Then she found her voice. "The box of nails--I didn't know 'twas up there, see!" and she pointed to them, where Joel had tried to gather them up.
"He fell down from there?" asked Grandma, looking up at the beam.
Polly nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Joel wrung his hands together, and stood quite still.
"In that case," said Grandma, "this boy must go for Dr. Fisher just as soon as he can."
"Run, Joe, as hard as ever you can," gasped Polly.
No need to tell Joel that. Over the fields and across lots he ran like a deer, scaling stone walls in a flash, only to reach the doctor's house to be told that he was away twenty miles into the country. Then Joel sat down on the grass by the roadside, and burying his face in his hands, cried as if his heart would break.
He didn't mind that a pair of spirited black horses were coming down the road, the bright horses all a-jingle, and the carriage all a-bloom with gay colors, and merry with cheery voices.
"What's the matter?" called somebody to him, but he cried on as hard as he could.
Then his little shoulder in his homespun jacket was shaken smartly. "See here, my boy, either you tell me what you're screaming for, or I'll pick you up and carry you off."
Joel looked up, the streams of tears making muddy paths along his face, where he had rubbed it with his grimy hands. "Dave's killed," he burst out, "and the--the doctor's gone away!"