“Hurt you bad, dear?” asked he tenderly.
“Yes, it did; and that boy saw how I cried. Why, I cried awf’lly!”
The angry brother clinched his fists, and ran to find Jimmy. He did not stop to think of Jimmy’s age and size, but rushed at him wildly, exclaiming, “Take that for ’busing my sister!”
It was the last sentence Pollio spoke for five minutes. How could he speak, with Jimmy’s foot on his back, and his own face close to the earth, eating dirt? It was as much as he could do to breathe.
“Want to whip me again, my son? I’m ready for you!” called out that dreadful Jimmy with a gay laugh.
Wasn’t it hateful, when Pollio couldn’t hurt him any more than a fly at the best of times, and needed both hands now to stop the nose-bleed?
Pollio ran home in a fever of rage; but when the rain had cooled him a little he dreaded to see his mother, and let her know he had been quarrelling.
His aunt Ann met him at the door with a look of amazement; for he had no umbrella, his clothes were soaking with water, and the handkerchief he held to his nose was red with blood.
“Fought I’d come home,” stammered he, darting into the entry. “Dr. Field sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”
“You didn’t come home in the rain to tell me that? How did you get hurt so, my child?”