The Last Days of Dogtown

Cornelius blinked at the barrage of cheerful words, and he did what he could to help get himself onto the plank.

Oliver took up the rope and started dragging him, as slowly as he could, to ease his way in and out of the ruts, some as deep as a horse trough.

“Sorry, old man,” he said at every bump. “I never forgot how you helped me out of that scrape at Peg Low’s tavern.

Course, that was before I was a married man. You don’t find me in a tavern these days.”

“There are plenty of married men in those places,” said Polly.

The sled hit a big rock and Cornelius groaned.

“Sorry,” said Oliver and Polly in unison.

“I think Easter might be best for looking after that leg,”

said Polly. “She’s good with the rheumatiz, isn’t she?”

“We could ask Judy, too,” said Oliver.

“She’s not much for bones, is she?”

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A N I T A D I A M A N T

“No need,” Cornelius said.

The house wasn’t much more than a hundred yards past the bend in the road where Cornelius had fallen. A baby wailed, and Polly ran toward the sound while Oliver settled him against a tree.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and followed his wife inside.

Cornelius could hear their voices but not what they were saying. He tried to move his leg again, but the pain pinned him flat. He could not stand, couldn’t even move away to relieve himself, a need that was becoming urgent. The baby’s cries had ceased. Cornelius could not remember the last time he had felt so helpless or so afraid.

“It’s far too hot inside the house for you,” said Oliver, bringing him a cup of water. “You’re better off out here where there’s a chance of a breeze. I’ve got to get into work, but I’ll stop and let Somes know about the accident. Polly will see to you until I can fetch Easter this evening, and then . . .”

“I’m afraid, I mean,” Cornelius interrupted, “I don’t, I mean I can’t . . .”

“No need,” Oliver said, rushing to reassure him that thanks were unnecessary. “What would have become of me if you hadn’t dragged me home that day? What would have become of you if our foolish Poppa hadn’t found you, eh?”

Cornelius shook his head.

Polly stood at the door with her new baby, David, on her shoulder. Three-year-old Natty peeked out from behind her dress. “Kindness is its own reward,” she said.

“Not in my experience, Missus.”

“I suppose not,” she allowed.

Cornelius gestured for Oliver to bend down. “Mr.

Younger, I must ask you to, I need to . . .”

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The L A S T D AY S of D O G TOW N