“And [you are scaring that poor old man most to death,” said Polly], hastily gathering up the little lumps of dough. “Look at him, Joe.”
[“You are scaring that poor old man most to death,” said Polly.]
Joel stopped instantly as he looked over at Mamsie’s corner. There sat the poor old man, staring at them both, and hanging to the arm of the big chair in consternation.
“Now you’ve got to go over and tell him that you won’t cry any more,” said Polly decidedly; “else I don’t know what will happen. Maybe he’ll go out on the doorstep again, and tumble straight down. Just think, Joel Pepper!” And with that she opened the oven door and popped in the pan that had a few lonely little dough-lumps scattered in it.
Joel, thus adjured, scampered over to the poor old man. “I—I—won’t—cry any more, sir,” he blurted out, twisting his face dreadfully.
“Hey?” said the old man, “what’s the matter?” So Joel told him the whole story.
And the old man, who hadn’t heard the tumble and the upset of the pan, only Joel’s roars, soon quieted down and leaned back in his chair.
“And now,” said Polly, over by the table, “I shouldn’t wonder if this pan was ready for you to carry over and put in the oven, Joey.”
“What?” exclaimed Joel, not believing his ears; “you going to let me put that one in?”