“It wasn’t serious, then? It had happened before he came to our house?”
“Why—yes,” answered the little man, with a puzzled expression. “Was he all right when you saw him?”
“Perfectly. He never said anything about any accident. He looked just as he always does.”
“That fellow has copper springs and patent joints inside him!” Miner laughed. “He was a good deal shaken, that’s all, and went home in a cab. I should have gone to bed, myself.”
“But what was it?”
“Oh—what he’d call nothing, I suppose! The cars at the corner of Thirty-second and Broadway—we were waiting, just as we are now—two cars were coming in opposite ways, and a boy with a bundle and a dog and a perambulator, and a few other things, got between the tracks—of course the cars would have taken off his head or his heels or his bundle, or something, and the dog would have been ready for his halo in three seconds. Jack jumped and picked up everything together and threw them before him and fell on his head. Wonder he wasn’t killed or crippled—or both—no, I mean—here’s a chance, Miss Lauderdale—come along before that van stops the way!”
There was not time to say anything as Katharine hastened across the broad street by his side, and by the time they had reached the pavement the blood had come back to her face. Her fears for Ralston’s safety had been short-lived, thanks to Miner’s quick way of telling the story, and in their place came the glow of pride a woman feels when the man she loves is praised by men for a brave action. Miner glanced at her as he landed her safely from the crossing and wondered whether Crowdie’s portrait would do her justice. He doubted it, just then.
“It was just like him,” she said quietly.
“And I suppose it was like him to say nothing about it, but just to go home and restore his shattered exterior and put on another pair of boots and go and see you. You said he looked as though nothing had happened to him?”
“Quite. We had a long talk together. I should certainly not have guessed that anything had gone wrong.”