“We've been having trouble at Sturgeon Lake—pretty rough stuff, too,” was the explanation; “and these boys got shot up a little. Probably, you know 'em—Planchette and Napoleon Sky, the Indian.”
“Yes, yes! You don't say! So, the Sturgeon Lake trouble has come to that point, has it? I was afraid of it. I knew those fellows were desperate. They gave me a taste to show they meant business.”
“They sure did, Mac. But, say, that isn't the worst. The Old Nick himself is shot up, and hitting the high spots with fever. We're afraid to move him, and—”
“Wh—what's that?” asked a trembling feminine voice from the doorway. “Who did you say had fever?”
During an instant of pregnant silence, the universe stood still for all those there present. The crisis was come more quickly than Donald had expected.
“Well, by heavens, Mac,” blurted out Braithwaite, “I didn't know you did this sort of—er, were away on a vaca—”
“Answer her question,” commanded Donald, bluntly; “and then I'll explain.”
“Oh, yes, who's got the fever? It's the governor, the boss, the factor—er—Mr. Fitzpatrick. It's not what you call dangerous yet, but the chances are good, ma'am. Yes,” he added, with evident relish, “the chances are good.”
The cry that broke from the girl's lips halted any further essays at humor of this sort.
“Shut up, can't you, Braithwaite?” snarled Donald. “Can't you see it's Miss Fitzpatrick, and that she wants to know about her father?