“Sam!  Byrd!  Mammy!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, while Peter sat paralyzed at the sight of Sam’s farm-house.  Peter had got the old Crittenden house and all the others where he had been entertained in his mind’s eye, and that Sam’s present residence was a shock to him I could see plainly.  That was the beginning.

“Hi, Betty, come here quick—­I need you!” came in Sam’s most business-like voice from the barn up on the hill, while I could hear wild and excited cheeps from the Byrd and disturbed clucks from Mammy.

Leaving Peter to disembark as he recovered himself, I sped around the house and up to the barn.

“Here, Betty, this blamed mule has kicked old Jude, and I must have somebody to hold the edges together while I sew it up.  Mammy’s hands aren’t steady enough.  Now press the edges together and never mind the blood on your hands.  Hold the halter, Mammy.  You get that can of lime ready to dust it, Byrd.”  Thus in dirty, blood-stained overalls, with his hair on ends and an earth smudge as usual right across his face like a Heidelberg scar, Sam was commanding his forces of nature.

“Ugh—­uu—­ow, Sam,” I shivered; but I came up under his arm and tried to push one dripping section of old-roan hide until it joined the other, though I couldn’t quite make it.  Over my shoulder Sam began to sew it across with a huge crooked needle, helping me push the edges together as best he could.  At this auspicious moment the poet appeared at the barn door in an absolutely dazed condition.

“Here you, Pete, too!” Sam commanded, without looking up.  “Get here on the other side and press the hide together as Betty is doing.  This is an awful long cut, but I can manage it, thanks to seeing Chubb sew up Bates’s mule.  Whoah, Jude, old girl!  Hold her steady, Mammy!  Now, Pete, press hard; never mind the blood!”

At Sam’s determined reiteration of the word blood, my senses reeled, and if it had been anybody but Sam sewing over my shoulder, I would have gone down in a crumpled heap.  Also I was stirred by one glance at Peter’s lovely long oval face with its Keats lock of jet-black hair tossed aloft, and I remained conscious from astonishment.

This was a new Peter.  His eyes burned in his face with determination.  He squared his legs, clad in his elegant idea of farming corduroys, at the exact angle at which Sam’s were set; then his long, white hands pulled the bloody old hide together exactly in place.

“That’s it, Pete, hold it there.  You slip out, Betty, and hold Jude while Mammy gets the hot water ready to wash it when it is finished.  Now, Pete, an inch farther along!  Whoah, Jude!” And with his long needle Sam began rapidly to draw the gaping wound together.

“Here, Byrd, you hold Jude,” I said, suddenly; and giving the halter to the dirty fledgling, who was snubbing tears in his distress over the accident to his old friend, I quit the scene of the operation and fled to the woods to faint down on a log and be as ill as I wanted to.  It was rather bad; and it lasted about a quarter of an hour.