Others were almost as deeply affected by Daisy’s gloomy prophecy. As soon as she put the thought in their minds, Thomas Kimball, Freddie Mears and the remarkable Elsie were all convinced that Robert was near his passing, and with natural solicitude they had but the one thought in common: to establish an alibi. “Well, _I_ never went anywhere near him,” Elsie said. “I never even _touched_ a mallet!” “Neither’d I!” said Thomas Kimball. “I wasn’t in ten feet of him.” “_I_ wasn’t in a hunderd!” said Freddie. “It wasn’t _me_!” Thomas protested. “_I_ didn’t have anything to do with it.” “It was Laurence Coy,” said Freddie. “_That’s_ who it was.” “It was every _bit_ Laurence Coy,” said Elsie. “I _told_ them not to play such rough games.” Thus protesting, the three moved shyly toward various exits from the yard, and protesting still, went forth toward their several dwelling-places—and went unnoticed, for Robert was the centre of attention. The volume of sound he produced was undiminished, though the tone had elevated somewhat in pitch, and he seemed to intend words, probably of a reproachful nature; but as his excess of emotion enabled him to produce only vowels, the effect was confused, and what he wished to say could be little more than guessed. “Hush, hush!” said Renfrew, trying to get him to stand up. “You’ll bring the whole town here!” Robert became more coherent. “He _him_ me om my _mose_!” “I know,” said Renfrew. “But you’re not much hurt.” Appearing to resent this, Robert cried the louder. “I am, too!” he wailed. “I bet I _do_ die!” “Nonsense!” “_I_ bet he does,” said the gloomy Daisy. “He _is_ goin’ to die, Renfrew.” Pessimism is useful sometimes, but this was not one of the times. When Robert heard Daisy thus again express her conviction, he gave forth an increased bellowing; and it was with difficulty that Renfrew got him to a hydrant in the side yard. Here, plaintively lowing, with his head down, Robert incarnadined Renfrew’s trousers at intervals, while the young man made a cold compress of a handkerchief and applied it to the swelling nose. “If I—’f I—’f I die,” the patient blubbered, during this process, “they got to ketch that lull-little Lull-Laurence Coy and huh-hang him!” “Nonsense!” said Renfrew. “Stand still; your nose isn’t even broken.” “Well, my stummick is,” Daisy said, attending upon them and still in the semicircular attitude she had assumed for greater comfort. “I guess he broke _that_, if he never broke anything else, and whether he gets hung or not, I bet my mother’ll tell his mother she’s got to whip him, when she finds out.” “When she finds out what?” Renfrew asked. “When she finds out what he did to my stummick!” “Pooh,” said Renfrew. “Both of you were teasing Laurence, and worrying him till he hardly knew what he was doing. Besides, there isn’t really anything to speak of the matter with either of you.”