"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness."
"I reckon," returned Horace, sadly, "it isn't a wellness, neither."
"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested aunt Madge. "If any one can help the poor creature, it is she."
Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and a capital nurse. It was an anxious moment for little Horace, when she unwrapped the crushed paw, Pincher moaning all the while in a way that went to the heart.
"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a brogue, "it's a bad-looking fut; but I've some intment here that'll do no har-rum, and it may hulp the poor craycher."
She put the salve on some clean linen cloths, and bound up the wound, bidding them all be very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."
"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace. "He just lies down by the stove all day."
Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "he was a pooty craycher; 'twas more the pities that he ever went off in the wuds."
Horace hung his head. O, if he could have blotted out that day of disobedience!
"Wasn't it a real rebel, heathen man," cried Prudy, "to put the trap where Pincher sticked his foot in it?"