Ben looked at Baird's drooping shoulders. The boy was almost falling from fatigue. He was certainly a "cool-head," but a boy, nevertheless; a young fellow experiencing his first big trouble, and not knowing just what to make of it. He loved Ann completely, he had shown that, a somewhat astonishing thing in one of his rough-and-ready sort, Ben thought. If the doctor brought them bad news, they were both going to suffer.
Baird straightened and turned. "He's coming," he said.
Ben rose uncertainly to his feet. "You go ask him," he returned in his deepest growl.
But Baird was already on his way. The doctor's buggy had come into view, and Ben watched Baird go. He peered intently at the group, the doctor bent forward a little and Baird standing with one hand on the dashboard, as if for support.... The buggy moved on, and, for a moment, Ben could not make out whether Baird was returning laggingly or not. Then he saw that he came with head up, and Ben stopped swaying.
Baird's tired eyes were alight. "Ben, he says there's no serious injury, just a severe shock. It was the concussion made her unconscious so long. He said she might never have come out from it, that many don't, but that she had. And he says her spine's all right." It was the fear that had harried them both, and to which neither had referred.
"Um!" said Ben. It was an expressive monosyllable.
The two looked at each other in the way usual with men when uplifted and yet held by awkwardness.
"I'm going to the club now," Baird said.
And Ben asked as prosaically, "Where's your horse?"
"I left him in the doctor's stable—I don't mind walking.... I'll come over this afternoon." And he went.