“Tell me straight. I can stand the worst.”
“Hum!” he says. “Heads differ. I've got to go—”
“No you don't!” I says, backing him up against the post; “not till you tell me. Her legs, now. Think they will ever straighten out? Think she'll ever git over that red, scalded look? Think she'll ever be able to talk, Doc?”
Doc looked anxious toward the road.
“Don't worry,” he says. “Don't fret. Keep cool and ca'm.”
“Yes,” I says, scornful like. “Me keep cool! Don't you know I'm that poor little, bent-up kid's daddy? Don't you know I looked forward to callin' her Edith L.? Don't you know—? Doc,” I says, strong and forcible, “money ain't no object in a case like this. Tell me this: Shall I git a specialist? Would it do any good to send to Denver and git a specialist, or Chicago, or New York?” Doc looked interested at the horizon.
“Why, no,” he says, “no! I don't see that it would.”
I'll bet that that was the first time Doc ever said “No” straight out. It settled me. I let go of his arm and sat right down. If Doc Wolfert spoke up and said “No” I knew there wasn't nothing to be done.
I sat there probably about a thousand years, if you count by feelin's. I had a wish to go in and see the kid, and then, again, I hated to. I hated for Mrs. Murphy to look at me; I felt I'd blubber, and I was ashamed; but I knew I'd ought to be there to take Marthy's hand when she woke up, and to lie to her about it not bein' so bad as she would think.
That made me pull myself together. I made up my mind that I'd be a man, anyway. I had Marthy to think of, and a man ain't made to be blubberin' around when his women need help. I swallowed down the chunk of my neck that had got stuck in my throat, and swiped my eyes, and stood on my legs. When I turned, Mrs. Murphy was in the door.