“Well, but it hurt,” cried Pollio, hiding his head in the bed-clothes.
When the doctor came again, he found his little patient better than he had expected.
“But,” said he, “we can’t tell even yet how much his back is injured. Keep him very quiet, and don’t let him sit up for a day or two.”
“O doctor! wait a minute, doctor!” cried Billy, catching the good man by the coat-tail as he passed through the hall. “Is he hurt bad? Just tell me how bad he’s hurt!”
The doctor wasn’t a very patient man, and he fairly glared on the boy.
“Well, he isn’t killed; but he might have been. Don’t you ever let me hear of your frightening a baby again, Billy Barstow.”
But, when Billy cried, the doctor softened a little, and said it wasn’t so dreadful, after all; for Pollio was likely to be quite well in a few days. So Billy wiped his eyes, and ran off to help about firing a cannon: but he didn’t have as much fun as he had expected; he had spoiled the day for himself as well as for Pollio.
Poor Pollio! He lay on his white bed in his pretty chamber, pale and fretful, seeing no one but Nunky, aunt Ann, and mamma.
“I want my Posy!”
“No, dear: she would forget, and jump up on the bed.”