“Teeters is sick,” he announced, coming up.
Kate’s face grew troubled. She and Teeters had shipped together ever since they had had anything to ship, for it had been mutually advantageous in many ways; but particularly to herself, since he looked after her interests and saved her the necessity of making the trip to the market herself.
“Somethin’ he’s et,” Bowers vouchsafed. “The doctor says it’s pantomime pizenin’, or some sech name—anyhow, he’s plenty sick.”
“Where is he?”
Bowers nodded across the flat where they had been holding the sheep while waiting for their cars.
Kate swung her horse about and galloped for the tent where Teeters lay groaning in his blankets on the ground.
Teeters was ill indeed—a glance told her that—and there was not the remotest chance that he would be able to leave with the train.
“I guess I’ll be all right by the time they’re ready to pull out,” he groaned.
Kate made her decision quickly.
“I’ll go myself. You’re too sick. You get to the hotel and go to bed.”