“I—I guess not, Mr. Timothy,” answered the little girl.
“I never seen the beat of this in all my born days,” declared the man. “And that dog——”
“Prince is just the very best dog!” Carolyn May affirmed. “Oh, Mr. Timothy, take me down, quick! Poor Princey is all bloody; he must be hurt!”
“He is hurt some. That lynx raked him once, I ’low,” returned Tim. “But he’ll be all right when ye git him home and put something on the scratches. My goodness! what an exciting time! I never did see the beat of it!”
This statement Tim continued to repeat all the way to The Corners. He set Carolyn May back on the load again and hoisted Prince up with her, but he walked himself beside the team.
“Ain’t goin’ to take no more risks. Pitcher of George Washington! I guess not. Dunno what your Uncle Joe and Aunty Rose’ll say to me.”
The story lost nothing in the telling when Tim, the hackman, and Carolyn May both related it at the Stagg homestead. And poor Prince’s wounds spoke louder than words.
“Ain’t been a wildcat in this county afore in five year,” declared Tim. “And I’m sartain sure there never was one here more savage.”
When Uncle Joe saw Tim in the village and heard about the adventure he hastened home to make sure that his little niece had received no injury. Prince was enthroned on an old quilt beside the range.
Aunty Rose had herself washed his wounds—though she admitted being afraid of his savage-looking teeth—and had put some healing balsam on them. The dog, evidently enjoying his role of invalid, looked up at Mr. Stagg and slapped his tail on the floor.