“She’s anxious as you shan’t tell her husband. He’s got his work to do. She sent word by Busby as she’s all right.”
“I shan’t tell him,” said Innes pitifully.
A hand that looked like a claw picked at the coarse white spread. The jerking mouth was trying to tell her something. Mrs. Busby leaned over the bed.
“She’s worrying about Mrs. Dowker. Now, if that doesn’t beat all! I’m tellin’ her you’ll go and see if they’re all right. The boy is sick.” An open wink disavowed the obligation.
“Of course, I’ll go,” cried Innes, not heeding the signal. “Is—is her arm broken?”
Mrs. Busby was silent. The woman on the bed had to answer that question.
“It—fell on me. I—always—knew it would. I got under the bed. A beam struck my arm.”
Innes pointed to the skilful bandage.
“Who set it?”
“I did.” Mrs. Busby showed embarrassment. Frontier skill and her new faith were not yet in harmony. “It wasn’t no time to argue.”