“I got an awful crack, Ruth, but I am all right now. Too bad to bring you home. Who came with you?”
“Aunt Felicia and Uncle Peter,” she whispered as she stroked his uninjured hand.
“Mighty good of them—just like old Peter. Send the old boy up—I want to see him.”
Ruth made no answer; her heart was too full. That her father was alive was enough.
“I'm not pretty to look at, am I, child, but I'll pull out; I have been hurt before—had a leg broken once in the Virginia mountains when you were a baby. The smoke was the worst; I swallowed a lot of it; and I am sore now all over my chest. Poor Bolton's badly crippled, I hear—and Breen—they've told you about Breen, haven't they, daughter?” His voice rose as he mentioned the boy's name.
Ruth shook her head.
“Well, I wouldn't be here but for him! He's a plucky boy. I will never forget him for it; you mustn't either,” he continued in a more positive tone.
The nurse now moved to the bed.
“I would not talk any more, Mr. MacFarlane. Miss Ruth is going to be at home now right along and she will hear the story.”
“Well, I won't, nurse, if you don't want me to—but they won't be able to tell her what a fix we were in—I remember everything up to the time Breen dragged me from under the dirt car. I knew right away what had happened and what we had to do; I've been there before, but—”