He lifted up his voice and wept in bitterness of spirit.

Wept so that one could hear him a mile.

Wept so that J.G.Whitmore reading the Great Falls Tribune on the porch, laid down his paper and asked the world at large what ailed that doggoned kid now.
"Dell, you better go see what's wrong," he called afterwards through the open door to the Little Doctor, who was examining a jar of germ cultures in her "office." "Chances is he's fallen off the stable or something--though he sounds more mad than hurt.

If it wasn't for my doggoned back--" The Little Doctor passed him hurriedly.

When her man-child wept, it Needed no suggestion from J.G.or anyone else to send her flying to the rescue.