Did n't he do well? May n't he have his velocipede now?""Capital, Tom; you 'll be an orator yet. Learn another piece like that, and I 'll come and hear you speak it. Are you ready for your velocipede, hey?"
Polly was right; and Tom owned that "the governor" was kind, did like him and had n't entirely forgotten his promise. The boy turned red with pleasure, and picked at the buttons on his jacket, while listening to this unexpected praise; but when he spoke, he looked straight up in his father's face, while his own shone with pleasure, as he answered, in one breath, "Thankee, sir. I 'll do it, sir. Guess I am, sir!"
"Very good; then look out for your new horse tomorrow, sir." And Mr. Shaw stroked the fuzzy red head with a kind hand, feeling a
fatherly pleasure in the conviction that there was something in his boy after all.
Tom got his velocipede next day, named it Black Auster, in memory of the horse in "The Battle of Lake Regillus," and came to grief as soon as he began to ride his new steed.
"Come out and see me go it," whispered Tom to Polly, after three days' practice in the street, for he had already learned to ride in the
rink.
Polly and Maud willingly went, and watched his struggles, with deep interest, till he got an upset, which nearly put an end to his velocipeding forever.
"Hi, there! Auster's coming!" shouted Tom, as came rattling down the long, steep street outside the park.
They stepped aside, and he whizzed by, arms and legs going like mad, with the general appearance of a runaway engine. It would have been a triumphant descent, if a big dog had not bounced suddenly through one of the openings, and sent the whole concern helter-skelter into the gutter. Polly laughed as she ran to view the ruin, for Tom lay flat on his back with the velocipede atop him, while the big dog barked wildly, and his master scolded him for his awkwardness. But when she saw Tom's face, Polly was frightened, for the color had all gone out of it, his eyes looked strange and dizzy, and drops of blood began to trickle from a great cut on his forehead. The man saw it, too, and had him up in a minute; but he could n't stand, and stared about him in a dazed sort of way, as he sat on the curbstone, while Polly held her handkerchief to his forehead, and pathetically begged to know if he was killed.
"Don't scare mother, I 'm all right. Got upset, did n't I?" he asked, presently, eyeing the prostrate velocipede with more anxiety about its damages than his own.
"I knew you 'd hurt yourself with that horrid thing just let it be, and come home, for your head bleeds dreadfully, and everybody is looking at us," whispered Polly, trying to tie the little handkerchief over the ugly cut.
"Come on, then. Jove! how queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please. Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the ma-
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chine, and I 'll pay you, Pat." As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself and steadying himself by Polly's shoulder, issued commands, and the procession fell into line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured Irishman, trundling "that divil of a whirligig," as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the helpful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom's cap.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand by Tom, for the parlor-maid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chamber-maid lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad cut, and must be sewed up at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. "Somebody must hold his head;" he added, as he threaded his queer little needle.
"I 'll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain't afraid, are you?" asked Tom, with imploring look, for he did n't like the idea of being sewed a bit.
Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, "Oh I can't!" when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward. Here was a chance to prove that she was n't; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and nod-ded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.
"You are a trump, Polly," whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, "Thank you ever so much, Polly," and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.
He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Every one
'petted him;' for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day; his mother talked continually of "that dear boy's narrow escape"; and grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom have confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her son's heart. But a little seed was sowed then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to be on such a short notice.
He could n't sleep so the girls amused him; Fanny played and read aloud; Polly sung, and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came, and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma's sofa.
"Fire away, Polly," said the young sultan, one evening, as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.
"I don't feel like stories to-night, Tom. I 've told all I know, and can't make up any more," answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, "What were you thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer every minute?
"I was thinking about Jimmy."
"Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some time; but don't, if you 'd rather not," said Tom, lowering
his rough voice respectfully.
"I like to talk about him; but there is n't much to tell," began Polly, grateful for his interest. "Sitting here with you reminded me of the way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy times, and it 's so pleasant to think about them now."
"He was awfully good, was n't he?"
"No, he was n't; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making resolu-
tions, and working hard to keep 'em. I don't think I got on much; but Jimmy did, and every one loved him."
"Did n't you ever squabble, as we do?"
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"Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we could n't stay mad, and always made it up again as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round first, and say, 'All serene, Polly,' so kind and jolly, that I could n't help laughing and
