The carriage was quickly at hand. Circus people were in the habit of obeying orders promptly. A quick drive was made to the hotel, where the circus boy was quickly undressed and put to bed.
All during the night the surgeon worked faithfully over his little charge, and just as the first streaks of daylight slanted through the window and across the white counterpane, Phil opened his eyes.
For only a moment did they remain open, then closed again.
The surgeon drew a long, deep breath.
“Not a fracture,” he announced aloud. “I’m thankful for that.” He drew the window shades down to shut out the light, as it was all important that Phil should be kept quiet for a time. But the surgeon did not sleep. He sat keen-eyed by the side of the bed, now and then noting the pulse of his patient, touching the lad’s cheeks with light fingers.
After a time the fresh morning air, fragrant with the fields and flowers, drifted in, and the birds in the trees took up their morning songs.
“I guess the storm must be over,” muttered the medical man, rising softly and peering out from behind the curtain.
The day was dawning bright and beautiful.
“My, it feels good to be in bed!” said a voice from the opposite side of the room. “Where am I?”
The surgeon wheeled sharply.