“What?”
He grimaced with his mouth—in the queerest way at the telegram.
“That.”
I took it up and read:
“Motor smash compound fracture of the leg gordon nasmyth what price mordet now”
For a moment neither of us spoke.
“That’s all right,” I said at last.
“Eh?” said my uncle.
“I’m going. I’ll get that quap or bust.”