The ladies were sitting on the terrace, playing with the baby and admiring her tricks, when suddenly there was a scraping noise, then a shriek, and James, all whirling arms and legs, descended amongst them. What had been a peaceful family gathering turned into the wildest confusion. Dad picked him up and carried him into the cottage. He was conscious, but he was pale and shaken. His lips were blue.
“My arm,” he said. “It hurts.”
Dad felt the arm swiftly, and scrutinized it carefully.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he said. “But it should be, with the fall you had. Where did you come from, anyway? Were you up in the tree, or did you drop out of a passing airplane?”
“No,” said James. “I was up on the roof. It slants there at the corner, and I must have fallen asleep, and dropped off.”
“You dropped right into our laps,” said Mom. “Thank heaven you’re safe.”
Aunt Claire made a splint out of the top of a small cheese box, and they wrapped up the injured arm temporarily.
“It will be hard to find a doctor today,” Dad said. “They’re all away from their offices for the holiday. By the way, James, there seems to be some special connection between doctors and holidays for you. You were born on Easter. You had measles one Christmas, and whooping cough the next, and now you come flying off the roof on the Fourth of July.”
They tried to reach Dr. Russell, but he wasn’t in. They finally reached Dr. Cordes in Deerpath.
“From your description,” he said, “it isn’t broken. Put him to bed, and keep him quiet. I’ll drop over to see him in the morning.”