Both Mrs. Andress and the major knew Cuss's disinclination to waste any more language than was absolutely necessary. Leaving the steaming team to his mercies, they hastened their steps toward the ranch house. There they found the handsome manager stretched out on a couch in the living-room, his left arm in a sling. Ethel hurried to him anxiously.
"What in the world has happened to you, Tom?" she asked in a voice replete with sympathy.
"I came a bad cropper, Ethel, and, of course, at a decidedly inconvenient moment," returned Fitzrapp gloomily. "I'm more worried about the loss to you than about anything physical that has happened to me. I ought to be fired for the mess I've made of things."
Woman-like, she scorned interest in her own misfortune until she had satisfied herself about his physical one. "Arm broken?" she asked.
The major had thrown off his coat and now approached with the semi-professional air of one skilled by long practice in the crude surgery of the plains, where operations from bringing children into the crowded world to necessary amputations generally are conducted without aid of an M.D.
"Oh, don't make such a fuss over me," said Fitzrapp, gesturing lightly with his free arm. "The wing's only sprained, I guess; I can move my fingers."
The major made a hurried but thorough examination, proving to his satisfaction that no bones were broken, and deciding, from the absence of inflammation, that the injury was trifling.
"That arm needs a good rubbing more than a sling," was the unprofessional verdict delivered, but not unkindly. "Shook you up some when you lit, I reckon. How came it?"
"Yes, how came it, Tom—and what's the new loss? I had a hunch up in 'Conna that I was in for one."
"I've been an awful fool, folks," said Fitzrapp, his face showing a disinclination to recite the details. "If you want to kick me out for this blunder you won't hear a whimper, for I deserve it."