Ike Fairweather had drawn up a soapbox and sat down on it just outside of the circle that had gathered about the scene. His eyes were filled with curiosity. Ike did not fully understand what was “coming off,” as he later described it, but felt certain that he was about to witness something interesting.
Steeling herself to resist the pain, Grace talked as Miss Briggs inserted the needle and began stitching the scalp together, but the lines of her face showed the strain under which Grace was laboring.
“Elfreda, haven’t you nearly finished with that patchwork?” she finally asked in a queer, strained voice.
“One more stitch and I am done. There! It is fini, as the Frenchmen would say. Thank you, Emma. I will take the kit.”
The kit dropped from Miss Dean’s nerveless fingers, and, uttering a little moan, she collapsed.
“Emma has fainted. Throw a pail of water on her face,” directed Elfreda, calmly proceeding to place a bandage over Grace’s head.
Nora ran for water, while Anne, who had sprung forward, turned the fainting girl over on her back and fanned her with a sombrero.
Emma’s faint was the crowning climax for Ike Fairweather. Ike went over backward with his soapbox, landing on his back in a dead faint.
Hippy grabbed the old coach driver, the veteran of many a hold-up and thrilling battle in the mountains, and twisted him about so his head might be higher than his feet.
“Nora darling, fetch two pails of water,” called Hippy. “What ails this bunch of tenderfeet, anyway?”