Say, your father is rampaging proud of you, isn't he ?" "I don't know," answered the dazed Freckles.
"Well, call on me if you want reliable information.

He's so proud of you he is all swelled up like the toad in AEsop's Fables.

If you have ever had an arm hurt like this, and can do anything, why, for pity sake, do it!" She turned back her sleeve, holding toward Freckles an arm of palest cameo, shaped so exquisitely that no sculptor could have chiseled it.
Freckles unlocked his case, and taking out some cotton cloth, he tore it in strips.

Then he brought a bucket of the cleanest water he could find.
She yielded herself to his touch as a baby, and he bathed away the blood and bandaged the ugly, ragged wound.

He finished his surgery by lapping the torn sleeve over the cloth and binding it down with a piece of twine, with the Angel's help about the knots.
Freckles worked with trembling fingers and a face tense with earnestness.
"Is it feeling any better ?" he asked.
"Oh, it's well now!" cried the Angel.