"But we can't find Drew," protested the doctor.
Then the blood came gushing back into her eyes and some wicked brute took her bruised knees, and her wrenched back, and her broken collar bone, and her smashed head, and jarred them all up together like a bag of junk, and she gave one awful, blood-curdling yell—and a horse whinnied—and everything in the world stopped happening like a run-down clock.
When Time began to tick normally again, she found herself lying with an almost solid cotton face in a pleasant, puffy bed that seemed to rock, and roll, and tug against her straining arm that clutched its fingers like an anchor into somebody's perfectly firm, kind hand. As far away as a voice on a shore, tired, hoarse, desperately incessant, some one was signaling reassurance to her: "You're all right, honey, You're all right, honey."
After a long time her fingers twittered in the warm grasp. "Who are you?" she stammered perplexedly.
"Just your 'own man,'" whispered Drew.
The lips struggling out from the edge of the bandage quivered a little. "My 'own man'?" she repeated with surprise. "Who was the tattletale that told you?" She began to shiver suddenly in mental or physical agony. "Oh, I remember it all now," she gasped. "Was the little boy killed who sat in the corner seat?"
"Why, I don't know," said Drew, and his voice rasped unexpectedly with the sickening strain of the past few hours.
At the sound she gave a panic-stricken sob. "I believe I'm dead myself, Drew," she cried, "and you're trying to keep it from me. Where am I? Tell me instantly where I am."
Drew's laugh rang out before he could control it. "You're here in your own little room," he assured her.
"Prove it," she whimpered hysterically. "Tell me what's on my bureau."