Pollio wondered how she knew he was hurt, when he hadn’t told her a word.
“Dr. Field did sent his ’gards to you, Nanty.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And he sent his ’gards to Nunky, and he sent ’em to the whole fam-i-ly.”
The last word ended in a wail. His nose did ache so! and—oh, dear!—it was bleeding again.
Aunt Ann screamed for his mother. He had taken away the handkerchief, and revealed the worst-looking nose you ever saw on a human boy. She thought it was broken, but it was not.
“Jimmy Cushion did that,—the boy I liked that had a pop-gun,” said Pollio after his mother had bathed his face with arnica, and asked him fifty questions.
“What! that large boy?”
“Yes: he’ll be nine years old ’fore I am,” said little Pollio.