“The arm's coming on well,” was Doctor Buller's verdict late that afternoon as he gave the healing member its usual manipulation and massage. “It takes patience to wait, though, doesn't it, Burns? Never tried a broken arm myself, but I should say that hand must be itching to be at work in the operating-room again.”
“Itching! It's burning, blistering, scarifying! I never knew how I liked that part of my work till I had to come down to an exclusive practice in pills and plasters. Grayson's doing a stunt to-day that would have driven me mad with envy if I could have stopped to look on. Doing it cleverly, too, by the report I had from Van Horn just now. When Van takes the trouble to praise another man it means something.”
“Means it's been forced from him,” commented Buller. “Besides, Van enjoys praising Grayson to you. He's enjoyed your smashed arm, too, the old fraud. Was he ever so decent to you before?”
Burns laughed. “You can't strike fire that way today,” he declared. “Hold on! You're not going to put that arm back into the splints?”
“Of course I am. It lacks two days yet off the shortest modern regulation period. Come on here.”
“Leave 'em off. I'll take the consequences.”
“Don't be foolish, man. If I had my way I'd keep the thing put up another full week. I'm not an advocate of this hurry business.”
“I am. The arm's well enough to come out. I'll wear it in a sling, but I want my coat sleeve on, and I'm going to have it on. Fix me up, will you? I'm in a hurry.”
“You're going on a journey?”
“Yes. Get busy.”