"Ain't sick, are yer?" the shopkeeper asked with mild curiosity.
"Daddy shot himself in the leg, an' mother don't know what to do for him; so I've come up to hire a doctor to tell me, an' buy whatever he says is needed."
"A kid like you come across the desert! Where's your pony?"
"I haven't got any. Daddy's horses are so nearly played out that they've got to be left to grass two or three weeks, if we count on doin' anything with 'em."
"Did you walk across?" the shopkeeper asked incredulously.
"That's what I did;" and Dick told of his sufferings during the sand-storm, not in a boastful way, but as if it were his purpose to give the prospectors the praise they deserved.
When he had concluded, the proprietor plunged his hands deep in his pockets, surveyed the boy from head to foot much as Parsons and Robinson had, saying not a word until Dick's face reddened under the close scrutiny, when he exclaimed,—
"Well, I'll be jiggered! A kid of your size—say, how old are you, bub?"
"Thirteen."
"Well, a baby of thirteen lightin' out across Smoke Creek Desert, an' all for the sake of helpin' your dad, eh? Do you reckon you can bite out of Dr. Manter's ear all you want to know, an' then go back an' run the business?"