“No: because next time you will think. But here comes friend Littlefield. Now, Teddy, don’t you tell him about this; please don’t.”
It was well Nunky said that; for Teddy was rather apt to report “the children’s” little mistakes, and they were very sensitive about it.
Pollio had now been lame for several weeks, and everybody thought it might be months before he would get well. But, one morning not long after this, Posy swung open the dining-room door, drawing her brother after her, and saying gleefully,—
“O mamma! O papa! my Pollio can walk!”
Yes, he was actually walking. Never was Napoleon Bonaparte any prouder after a great victory than our little hero as he stalked into that dining-room.
They all rose from the table just as surprised as they had been on the first morning when he couldn’t walk. Then what a clapping of hands, what a shouting! Eliza Potter and Jane Roarty, who were in the kitchen, wondered what could have happened; and so did Ike, who was passing by the dining-room windows.
Ike saw Mrs. Pitcher hugging Pollio as if he were the best boy in the world, just because his legs had stopped feeling like India-rubber boots; and then they hugged him all round, and his father tossed him up to the ceiling.
“Let’s celebrate; let’s have a picnic at Rocky Brook,” said Dick.
“But Pollio can’t walk so far,” objected Edith.