He fumbled in his pocket. The girl, thoroughbred, looked him straight in the face, pale, meeting what she felt to be the great moment of her life.
"Then he's alive! He must be!"
Curly shook his head; meaning that he was feeling in the wrong pocket.
"He is dead! And I did not see him. He—went away—" Her chin quivered. "Tell me," she whispered, "tell me!"
Curly, busy in his search for the letter, lost the tragedy of this.
"Tell me, tell me, how did it happen?"
"Well, ma'am, he ain't hurt so awful," remarked Curly, calmly. "He just got a finger or so touched up a little, so's he couldn't write none to speak of, you see."
Her heart gave a great bound. She feared to hope, lest the truth might be too cruel; but at length she dared the issue. "Curly," said she, firmly, "you are not telling me the truth."
"I know it, ma'am," replied Curly, amiably; he suddenly realized that he was not making his own case quite strong enough. "The fact is, he got hurt a leetle bit worse'n that. His hand, his left—no, I mean his right hand got busted up plenty. Why, he couldn't cut his own victuals. The fact is, it's maybe even a little worse'n that."
"Tell me the truth!" the girl demanded steadily. "Is his arm gone?"