“He is a good boy,” Frances said, cheerfully. “And I hope that he will recover all right, as the doctor says he will.”
“I don’t know how fast he’ll mend,” chuckled the Captain. “If I were he, and getting the attention he is—”
“From whom?” demanded Frances, turning on him sharply.
“From Ming, of course,” responded her father, soberly, but with his eyes a-twinkle.
And then Frances fled upstairs again, her cheeks burning as she heard the old ranchman’s mellow laughter.
Pratt lay on his bed with his head swathed in bandages and his shoulder in a brace. He had suffered a dislocation as well as the bruises and the cut in his head. From the time he had been struck from behind by the man, Pete, the young fellow had known nothing at all until he awoke to find himself stretched upon this bed in the Bar-T ranch-house.
The old Captain, with Ming’s help, had disrobed Pratt and put him to bed; but when the doctor came early in the morning, he put the patient in Frances’ hands.
“What he needs is good nursing. Don’t leave him to the men,” said the doctor. “Your father says he’s cured himself by getting out on horseback. If it didn’t kill him, I admit it’s aiding in his cure for him to be more active again.
“But I depend upon you, my dear, to keep this patient as quiet as possible. I hate having my patients get away from me,” added the physician with twinkling eye. “And this lad is mine for some time. He has sure been badly shaken up.”
He was afraid at first that there was concussion of the brain; but after a few hours the young bank clerk became lucid in his speech and the fever began to decrease.