“It’s good Phronsie and David are over to Grandma Bascom’s,” said Polly, flying at her work; “for she’d worry dreadfully over that poor old man, and she’d tease me to hurry and bake ’em fast, so I couldn’t do a thing. There, now that pan’s ready for the oven.”
“Let me carry ’em and put ’em in,” cried Joel, who, having given up his plan to rush out and investigate the old chimney from the small door-yard, was now hanging over Polly’s baking-table, and dividing his attention upon her work and the old visitor over in the corner. “Let me, Polly,” springing up, and holding out both hands.
“Oh, I’m afraid!” began Polly. Then remembering how he had to wait for the story, she added hastily, “Well, be careful, Joe,” as she put the pan into his outstretched hands.
“I’ll be careful,” said Joe, marching off with his black eyes fastened on the pan which he was carrying carefully in both hands. “Now, says I, you’re going into the oven, Mr. Biscuits.”
Polly rushed back into the pantry to get another pan, when she heard Joel’s voice: “Oh, I couldn’t help it, Polly,” and when she flew out, there was Joel sitting on the floor in a heap; and the pan was upside down beside him, while several little lumps of dough seemed to be trying to get back of the stove.
“O Joe, are you hurt?” cried Polly, flinging down her empty pan, and running up to him.
“No—no—no!” roared Joel in the greatest distress, “but I’ve up—up—set—upset—upset”—and he screamed on worse than ever.
“Never mind,” said Polly soothingly, and swallowing something in her throat as she looked at the poor little lumps of dough on the floor. “See, you didn’t spill ’em all, Joe,” and she turned the pan right side up; “there are some stuck fast.”
Joel, at that, took out one black eye from under his arms, and regarded the pan through his tears.