catch, as well as no congratulations. Willy would be praised for enticing a stupid fish to swallow a dead cricket and thereby impale itself on the hook, while the lightly seasoned breading with which Julie coated those fish would be taken for granted and not a single word of praise ever come her way. Besides, she wanted that brand new fishing pole to fail.
She picked up Wilhelm's lunch tray and pushed her jealousy of the fishing pole out of her mind. She had envied Willy his possessions before and she probably would do so again quite frequently in the future, so there was no sense ruminating about it now when work waited.
The dining room was as cool, on the shaded north side of the house, as the kitchen was steaming, but Julie walked quickly through to the front door and out to the porch. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the brightness of noon sun on white dust, and then she stepped sturdily down the stairs and towards the street. Just as she kicked the gate open, the boys came running.
"Julie, Julie, Julie!" Willy wailed. His short legs pumped unsteadily as he charged through the trees behind the cemetery. "Help me, Julie!"
She saw the blood first, the smeared red streaks that covered nearly all one side of his face and the spatters that had turned brown with dust on his white shirt. From the healthy sound of his cries and the way he ran, she took immediate reassurance that his injury could not be life-threatening, but the amount of blood frightened her. She set her father's lunch tray on the ground. Without hesitation, she ran to Willy, scooped him up in her arms, and carried him, still screaming, into the house.
"Clancy, go find Dr. Opper," she ordered Simon McCrory's youngest son when he and his companion gathered on the porch. "If you can't find him, get that Mr. Morgan. I'm sure your father will know where he is."
"Yes, ma'am, Miss Julie. C'mon, Donnie, we'll go get Doc."
She heard their bare feet slap on the wooden steps and pound in the dust before they ran up to Opper's house two doors away. Relieved that the boys could carry out simple instructions, she began a closer examination of Willy's wound.
He lay on the sofa, moaning softly, his eyes squeezed as tightly shut as he could get them. There was blood everywhere, more than she had thought, and it still trickled steadily from the cut above his eyebrow.
"Willy, I'm going to the kitchen for water and a rag to clean this with. Just lie still and I'll be back in a minute, all right?"
"Am I gonna die?" he whined.
"Not hardly, but I think you may need some stitches."
That was the wrong thing to say. The boy set up a wild keening and rolled about on the sofa, getting blood stains all over it.
She tried to settle him and calm his fears, but to no avail, and the bleeding didn't stop. She had to clean him up and see just how much damage had been done by the fishhook still embedded in the skin. Thankful that she had plenty of hot water from the morning's laundry, she filled a basin from the reservoir and grabbed a clean towel from the laundry basket. Willy started fresh moaning the instant she knelt on the floor beside him.
"Put your hand down and let me see it," she ordered gently, prying his cupped fingers away from the cut. "Maybe it won't need stitches after all, but I can't tell until I get it cleaned up."
That seemed to calm him, and he took his hand away. Using the utmost care not to disturb the implement, Julie dabbed as close to the fish hook as possible with a damp corner of the cotton towel.
The point had entered at the inside edge of the right eyebrow and then been pulled upward diagonally to leave a jagged gash more than an inch long. Head wounds always bled worse than anything else and invariably looked worse than they were, but Julie knew this was not just a scratch, as her mother's arm had been. Stitches, probably five or six from the looks of it, would be necessary, and even then there'd be a
She picked up Wilhelm's lunch tray and pushed her jealousy of the fishing pole out of her mind. She had envied Willy his possessions before and she probably would do so again quite frequently in the future, so there was no sense ruminating about it now when work waited.
The dining room was as cool, on the shaded north side of the house, as the kitchen was steaming, but Julie walked quickly through to the front door and out to the porch. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the brightness of noon sun on white dust, and then she stepped sturdily down the stairs and towards the street. Just as she kicked the gate open, the boys came running.
"Julie, Julie, Julie!" Willy wailed. His short legs pumped unsteadily as he charged through the trees behind the cemetery. "Help me, Julie!"
She saw the blood first, the smeared red streaks that covered nearly all one side of his face and the spatters that had turned brown with dust on his white shirt. From the healthy sound of his cries and the way he ran, she took immediate reassurance that his injury could not be life-threatening, but the amount of blood frightened her. She set her father's lunch tray on the ground. Without hesitation, she ran to Willy, scooped him up in her arms, and carried him, still screaming, into the house.
"Clancy, go find Dr. Opper," she ordered Simon McCrory's youngest son when he and his companion gathered on the porch. "If you can't find him, get that Mr. Morgan. I'm sure your father will know where he is."
"Yes, ma'am, Miss Julie. C'mon, Donnie, we'll go get Doc."
She heard their bare feet slap on the wooden steps and pound in the dust before they ran up to Opper's house two doors away. Relieved that the boys could carry out simple instructions, she began a closer examination of Willy's wound.
He lay on the sofa, moaning softly, his eyes squeezed as tightly shut as he could get them. There was blood everywhere, more than she had thought, and it still trickled steadily from the cut above his eyebrow.
"Willy, I'm going to the kitchen for water and a rag to clean this with. Just lie still and I'll be back in a minute, all right?"
"Am I gonna die?" he whined.
"Not hardly, but I think you may need some stitches."
That was the wrong thing to say. The boy set up a wild keening and rolled about on the sofa, getting blood stains all over it.
She tried to settle him and calm his fears, but to no avail, and the bleeding didn't stop. She had to clean him up and see just how much damage had been done by the fishhook still embedded in the skin. Thankful that she had plenty of hot water from the morning's laundry, she filled a basin from the reservoir and grabbed a clean towel from the laundry basket. Willy started fresh moaning the instant she knelt on the floor beside him.
"Put your hand down and let me see it," she ordered gently, prying his cupped fingers away from the cut. "Maybe it won't need stitches after all, but I can't tell until I get it cleaned up."
That seemed to calm him, and he took his hand away. Using the utmost care not to disturb the implement, Julie dabbed as close to the fish hook as possible with a damp corner of the cotton towel.
The point had entered at the inside edge of the right eyebrow and then been pulled upward diagonally to leave a jagged gash more than an inch long. Head wounds always bled worse than anything else and invariably looked worse than they were, but Julie knew this was not just a scratch, as her mother's arm had been. Stitches, probably five or six from the looks of it, would be necessary, and even then there'd be a
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