The poor come daily to Dr. Floddin's, and his fame is often in their
mouths.

Why is Davy white and beautiful? Why is he gentle and so marvelously
intelligent?

A year back, when his tonsils swelled, Dr. Tarpion said they must be
cut out. The house-keeper said it was the worst possible thing to do.
The cook said it should never be done. The peddling huckster's son
said Dr. Floddin didn't believe in it.

Then Davy would wake in the night. "I tan't breathe," he would
complain.

"Yes, you can, Davy. Papa's here. Lie down, Davy. Here's a drink."

And in the morning all would be well. Davy would be in the library
preparing for a great article.

The tribe on the other street, back, played ball from morning until
night. The toddler of the lot was no bigger than Davy. Every face was
as round and red as a Spitzbergen apple.

Last summer Lockwin and Davy went for a ball and bat, the people along
the cross-street as usual admiring the boy. A blacksmith shop was on
the way. A white bulldog was at the forge. He leaped away from his
master, and was on the walk in an instant. With a dash he was on Davy,
his heavy paw in the neat little pocket, bursting it and strewing the
marbles and the written articles. Snap! went the mouth on the child's
face, but it was merely a caprice.