My boy skipped past the dead porcupine and the broken chairs and dishes, and threw himself flat against a mildewed wall that he would have shrunk from had not his eyes been blinded by fear.
I nuzzled his neck with my soft lips. It was dreadful to see a boy suffer so much, and reaching out a hand he laid it gropingly on my head.
After he had gasped for a few seconds like a dying fish, he dragged himself to one of the broken windows.
Down there on the grass Mr. Devering was bending over the lamb. No wolf was in sight, and my young lad pulled himself together and cried in a relieved voice, "Come on, Babe," then he tore out of the house and down the hill.
When we got to Mr. Devering we saw that he had an open first-aid case on the grass beside him, and he was unwinding a roll of bandage.
"Is Lammie much hurt?" asked Dallas miserably.
"One nip—hind leg—it isn't bad. I'll take a few stitches. Hold his head and shoulders, will you?"