We came circling in to a landing, and the other plane was right on our tail, following us in within just a few minutes.
Paul Endicott said, “I notice there’s a plane leaving here for San Francisco within the next fifteen minutes. I see no reason for driving uptown with you and then rushing back. I’ve enjoyed the ride, and guess we’re all straightened out now.” He looked searchingly into Whitewell’s eyes and said, “Here’s luck, old man.”
They shook hands.
Philip said, “I’m the one who is going to need the luck. Do you suppose she’ll know me, Dad?”
Whitewell said dryly, “I have an idea she will.”
Endicott gave Philip a handshake. “Keep the old chin up and take it in your stride. We’re pulling for you, all of us.”
Philip tried to say something, but his quivering lips mumbled the words. Endicott covered his embarrassment by keeping right on with a line of patter, never stopping, so Philip would not have to say anything.
We stood there in a little compact group waiting for the taxicab for which we had telephoned. I told them I had to telephone and excused myself. I wanted to check on Helen and Louie, but the Acme Filling Station out on the Susanville highway wasn’t listed in the phone book. I came back and stood around stamping my feet against the cold, waiting for the cab. At length, it drew up and we piled in. Arthur Whitewell stopped for a last word with Endicott, then they shook hands and Whitewell crawled into the jump seat.
“What’s the name of the hospital?” Bertha asked.
“The Haven of Mercy,” I told the driver, and glanced at Arthur Whitewell’s face. It was, set in expressionless immobility. He might have been posing for an old-fashioned time exposure, and concentrating on not even batting an eyelash. Philip was the exact opposite. He kept biting his lip, tugging at his ear, fidgeting uneasily in his seat, looking out of the window of the cab, trying to avoid our eyes, doubtless wishing that he could escape our thoughts.