“Yes, the ricochet got them, and has put them out of commission,” replied Rockwell, carefully dwelling upon each word, and giving a note of meaning to his tone.
Ingolby raised himself in bed, but Rockwell gently forced him down again. “Will my eyes have to be kept bandaged long? Shall I have to give up work for any length of time?” Ingolby asked.
“Longer than you’ll like,” was the enigmatical reply. “It’s the devil’s own business,” was the weary answer. “Every minute’s valuable to me now. I ought to be on deck morning, noon, and night. There’s all the trouble between the two towns; there’s the strike on hand; there’s that business of the Orange funeral, and more than all a thousand times, there’s—” he paused.
He was going to say, “There’s that devil Marchand’s designs on my bridge,” but he thought better of it and stopped. It had been his intention to deal with Marchand directly, to get a settlement of their differences without resort to the law, to prevent the criminal act without deepening a feud which might keep the two towns apart for years. Bad as Marchand was, to prevent his crime was far better than punishing him for it afterwards. To have Marchand arrested for conspiracy to commit a crime was a business which would gravely interfere with his freedom of motion in the near future, would create complications which might cripple his own purposes in indirect ways. That was why he had declared to Jowett that even Felix Marchand had his price, and that he would try negotiations first.
But what troubled him now, as he lay with eyes bandaged and a knowledge that to-morrow was the day fixed for the destruction of the bridge, was his own incapacity. It was unlikely that his head or his eyes would be right by to-morrow, or that Rockwell would allow him to get up. He felt in his own mind that the injury he had received was a serious one, and that the lucky horseshoe had done Maxchand’s work for him all too well. This thought shook him. Rockwell could see his chest heave with an excitement gravely injurious to his condition; yet he must be told the worst, or the shock of discovery by himself that he was blind might give him brain fever. Rockwell felt that he must hasten the crisis.
“Rockwell,” Ingolby suddenly asked, “is there any chance of my discarding this and getting out to-morrow?” He touched the handkerchief round his eyes. “It doesn’t matter about the head bandages, but the eyes—can’t I slough the wraps to-morrow? I feel scarcely any pain now.”
“Yes, you can get rid of the bandages to-morrow—you can get rid of them to-day, if you really wish,” Rockwell answered, closing in on the last defence.
“But I don’t mind being in the dark to-day if it’ll make me fitter for to-morrow and get me right sooner. I’m not a fool. There’s too much carelessness about such things. People often don’t give themselves a chance to get right by being in too big a hurry. So, keep me in darkness to-day, if you want to, old man. For a hustler I’m not in too big a hurry, you see. I’m for holding back to get a bigger jump.”
“You can’t be in a big hurry, even if you want to, Ingolby,” rejoined Rockwell, gripping the wrist of the sick man, and leaning over him.
Ingolby grew suddenly very still. It was as though vague fear had seized him and held him in a vice. “What is it? What do you want to say to me?” he asked in a low, nerveless tone.