you, Pat." As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself up, and steadying himself by Polly's shoulder, issued his 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 faithful 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 fluriy. 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 an imploring look, for he didn'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 wasn't; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and nodded 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
