“But look a-here,” expostulated the doctor. “Is it surgical? I’d like to know just what to bring.”
“Come prepared for anything. Can you hear me? This is Eastman.”
“Oh—Mr. Eastman.” The doctor fell back a little, then, still holding the receiver to his ear with one hand, hastily smoothed at his hair with the other—as if to make himself more presentable for his conversation with the distant speaker. “I’ll start in fifteen minutes,” he promised.
“Good-bye.” The line closed.
The doctor was in his shirt-sleeves. He reached one long arm out for the coat hanging on the back of his office chair, the other for his wide, soft hat. Then he caught up a canvas case that held both medicines and instruments, and hurried out.
Half a block up the street was a low, flower-covered cottage that stood among wide-spreading fig trees. There was a strip of clover lawn before the little house. He halted when he reached it, and took off his hat. “Oh, Miss Letty!” he called.
The fig trees formed a dense screen against the noon heat. Under one was a girl, bareheaded and barearmed, with a half-filled basket of the purple fruit at her feet. As the doctor spoke she turned and came toward him swiftly across the clover. She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and the great knot of crisp and dusky hair on her small head added to her slender height. Her eyes were like her hair—dark and shining. They made vivid contrast with the clear paleness of her cheek and throat.
“You’re going out of town,” she said, with a glance at the canvas case.
“What do you think!” he answered, his face flushing with pleasure. “They want me at Blue Top!”
She stopped. “The regular mine doctor left last week. They’ll have to have somebody in his place. Maybe——” Her eyes questioned his.