"Ginger ale!" echoed Ralph with a darting thought that the wound was in his brother's head, and that he was wandering in his mind.
"What ginger ale?" demanded Rosie, more than ever mystified.
"Went off in my pock—pocket," sobbed Snigs, trying to control his unmanly emotion.
Bob, experienced in being a boy, plunged his hand into Snigs' hip pocket, and drew it out quicker than he had put it in, dripping with blood.
"Great Scott! His pocket's full of broken glass!" he cried. "Did you have a bottle of ginger pop in there, Snigs?"
"Yes," said Snigs, mastering the tears that flowed more from nervousness than from pain. "I was just getting one when you called me to catch those calves—plague take them! So I stuffed it into my pocket, because I was in too big a hurry to go into the house with it, and now it's bust!"
"It got hot and worked!" cried Bob. "Christopher Columbus, what a morning!" He couldn't help laughing, but he looked worried. "I wish I knew where mother was; Aunt Keren can't drive when a horse needs driving. They may be upset."
"I guess not; the road's straight," said Rosie. "Are you hurt, Snigs? Maybe that there glass blew somewhere into his flesh."
"Oh!" cried Happie, laughing and crying hysterically as she pictured glass blowing into flesh, and straining her eyes for a sight of Don Dolor.
"They're coming!" cried Gretta, who had the long vision of eyes accustomed to mountain reaches. "My, they must be worried! It sounded exactly like a shot."