“No—not before the New Year—whatever—nor after the New Year—not this winter—I’m afraid,” said Dr. Joe, reluctantly.
A shadow passed over Thomas’s face, but he said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” sympathized Doctor Joe.
“’Twere a blessin’ you were here t’ mend un,” said Tom.
“Yes,” agreed Doctor Joe, “it was well I was here to set it.”
“I wouldn’t mind so much if ’tweren’t for Jamie,” continued Thomas. “How, now, can we ever get th’ money t’ pay th’ lad’s way t’ have th’ great doctor cure him?”
But this was a question Doctor Joe could not answer, and he was sorely troubled.
“Pop,” said Jamie, who had come close to his father’s bed, “we’ll keep our grit, both of us, now.”
“Aye, lad, we’ll keep our grit, you and me,” and there was a choke in Thomas’s voice as he reached for Jamie’s hand, which Jamie gave him after passing it before his eyes in a vain effort to brush the mist away, which was a habit with him of late.