“Why, it seems like old times,” he said, smiling, as he sank back into the chair. “It isn’t so very long ago that I was sitting here with a bullet-hole through me.”
“You certainly have had your share,” agreed the doctor. “It’s just about two years since I cut that bullet out from under your shoulder-blade. What did you do with it?”
“Here it is,” said Mary, and taking a small bottle from the mantelpiece, she showed the little piece of flattened lead inside.
“You’ll get over this a good deal quicker,” went on the doctor, reassuringly. “You may walk around a little, only be careful to move slowly and not to bring any strain or wrench upon the side. I’ll look in once in awhile and make sure you’re getting along all right,” and with that he was gone.
At the gate, Allan saw him meet a mail-carrier, and pause to answer a question which the carrier put to him. Then he jumped into his buggy, and drove away, while the carrier mounted to the front door and knocked.
“I’ve got a registered letter here for John Welsh,” he said, when Mary opened the door. “Is he here?”
“Here I am,” said Jack, “but th’ letter must be fer some other John Welsh. Where’s it from?”
“It’s from Coalville.”
“Then it’s fer you, Jack,” said Mary, quickly.
“All right; sign for it here,” said the carrier, and presented the card and book.