“Where is it?” asked Polly, turning on him. Then she flew around again, for the old man was sinking down on the flat stone. “Oh, dear me! don’t please, poor old man,” she begged, trying to help him up to his feet again.
“I’m very hungry,” he quavered, shaking over his stick.
“Come into the house,” said Polly, with both hands under his arm—“Joe, take his other arm—and you can sit in our Mamsie’s big chair; it’s splendid, and it will rest you.”
The old man nodded, and set his poor trembling feet just where Polly told him to; and at last, Joel puffing and pushing on his side with a great deal of importance, he was helped into the kitchen, and set down in Mother Pepper’s big calico-covered chair over in the corner.
“That’s so nice,” he said with a deep sigh, and resting his head on his shaking hands.
“Joel,” said Polly, drawing off that individual into the entry with great difficulty, as he had no eyes or ears for anything but their visitor, “I’m afraid he’s going to die, he’s so very hungry. I must get him something to eat. Now I’m going to bake my biscuits; Mamsie’d let me give him some of those, I know.”
“No, no!” cried Joel; “you’ve got to tell me about Mr. Nutcracker, Polly,” seizing her gown.
“For shame, Joe!” cried Polly warmly, “when that poor old man is maybe going to die because he hasn’t had anything to eat. What would Mamsie say if she could hear you?”
Joel ducked his stubby head, and kicked the floor with his toes in a shamefaced way. “Well, you may, Polly,” he cried; “and I’ll help you,” he added, brightening up, and running into the kitchen after her.