“Hell of a reason—hum!” ended the surgeon, turning his back to him and his face to the patient on the bed.
Presently he pulled on his gloves and started for the door. He stopped and looked at John once more.
“Bullet in leg myself. Going to patch you both up. Army surgeon. Entitled to my services. Didn’t apply for pension? You and I are the only two who didn’t. By.”
The doctor did patch them up. But for Betsy there was to be no more work—nor any dancing. The chubby hands could only lie quietly within each other and wither. The agile feet could not lift themselves from the floor unless John helped them.
John put away his pick and shovel.
“I’ll have to learn to make baskets,” said he.
Betsy raised her head from the pillow on her chair to laugh.
“Don’t you think I kin?”
She looked at his hands and laughed again.
“But we’ll have to try—if you’re willing. We got to do something.”