Wasn’t it too bad for Billy to tell the story in that dreadful way, especially as he didn’t really know whether Pollio was much hurt or not? But it was just like Billy.
Everybody was terribly frightened; and Posy screamed so, that Edith had to hold her, while the others ran as fast as they could down the street to Pollio.
He was not killed: they knew that very soon, for he cried lustily.
“O my precious!” said mamma, kneeling beside him, “tell me where you are hurt. Is it your head?”
But the child was too bewildered to answer. He did not seem to know what had happened, only it was something horrible, and he could not stir.
“It’s of no use talking to him yet, sister Frances: the first thing is to get him home,” said Nunky. “Here, Dick, I’ll try to take him up in my arms if you’ll help by raising his feet.”
Dick did his best, but he hurt Pollio; and aunt Ann had to take Dick’s place, because her touch was more gentle. She and Nunky, between them, managed somehow to get the child home, though it was hard work; and they were forced to walk very slowly. Pollio groaned and sobbed all the way.
“Why doesn’t he speak? I’m afraid his head is hurt,” said his mother, walking beside him very anxiously.
“Oh! he’ll talk by and by, and tell us all about it: he’s a little stunned now,” replied Nunky, who never thought any thing was quite as bad as it seemed.