CHAPTER IV.
NOT THE END OF IT.
The moment Dr. Field arrived, Pollio set up a perfect howl. The doctor was a cross-looking man, with black eyebrows that met over his nose, and the children had always been afraid of him. Pollio said once he “couldn’t see his eyes, his eye-bushes were so fick.”
“You need not fancy this boy’s brain is injured,” said Dr. Field. “You see he knows me, and dislikes me as much as ever.”
He smiled sadly as he spoke; for he was sorry to be disliked.
“The colt has bruised his back a little; but I cannot tell how much till he stops screaming. I think I will go away now, and come again when he is calmer.”
Everybody but mamma left the room; and they tried to keep the house quiet, or as quiet as they could on Fourth of July. Billy Barstow had turned his colt into the meadow, and was pacing the dining-room in great distress, with no head on his shoulders but his own. The wolf’s head was in the stable-yard, and the dog was smelling at it, and wondering to what tribe it belonged.
“How’s Pollio?” was Billy’s question of everybody he saw. “O Eliza! mayn’t I go up and listen at the keyhole? I want to see if I can hear him groaning.”
“Hush! You’ve done enough mischief for one day, Billy Barstow!—knocking the senses out of that dear little innocent child! There’s no knowing as he’ll ever speak again,” sobbed Eliza.