“Ah!” sighed Donald happily as he fell back on the pillows.
The distant hum of a gas-car gradually increased to a series of staccato explosions, then died out suddenly. They heard the light rumble of wheels as it drew to a stop at the station below. There was the sound of quick footsteps on the board sidewalk and the door opened to admit Dr. Paul. He crossed the room and took Donald’s hand. “Is it true,” he asked incredulously, “that you whipped Ole Hand?”
“Strike me pink if ’e didn’t,” Andy vouchsafed.
“I have patched up Hand’s victim’s many times,” the doctor stated, “but this is the first time that I have attended his victor, and I can assure you that it’s a pleasure.” He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll look you over,” he added, then glanced significantly at Connie, who rose and left the room.
“A couple of cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, and a few hundred bruises,” was the doctor’s verdict a few minutes later.
The physician’s deft hands soon bandaged the broken ribs and set the bone of the forearm.
“I’ll go and patch up the fallen bully. I hope he’s worse still,” he chuckled as he left the room.
Andy stepped to the door and called in Connie.
“Don’t look so frightened, Connie,” smiled Donald. “I don’t feel half as bad as I look.”
“I’ll have to go now,” she said in a voice choked with emotion.