THE MOUSE-TRAP
Late in the afternoon of the same day, Ember, appearing suddenly in front of the bungalow, discovered Whitaker sitting up in state; a comfortable wicker chair supported his body and a canvas-seated camp stool one of his feet; which last was discreetly veiled in a dripping bath-towel. Otherwise he was fastidiously arrayed in white flannels and, by his seraphic smile and guileless expression, seemed abnormally at peace with his circumstances.
Halting, Ember surveyed the spectacle with mocking disfavour, as though he felt himself slightly at a disadvantage. He was, indeed, in a state that furnished an admirable contrast to that of the elegant if disabled idler. His face was scarcely whiter with the impalpable souvenirs of the road than was his slate-coloured mohair duster. The former, indeed, suffered by comparison, its personal coat of dust being deep-rutted with muddy paths of perspiration; beneath all lay the dull flush of flesh scorched by continuous exposure to sunlight and the swift rush of superheated air. None the less, his eyes, gleaming bright as through a mask, were not unamiable.
"Hel-lo!" he observed, beginning to draw off his gauntlets as he ascended the veranda steps and dropped into another wicker chair.
"How do you do?" returned Whitaker agreeably.
"I'm all right; but what the deuce's the matter with you?"
"Game leg, thanks. Twisted my ankle again, this morning. Sum Fat has been doctoring it with intense enthusiasm, horse liniment and chopped ice."
"That's the only proper treatment for sprains. Bad, is it?"
"Not very—not half as bad as I thought it would be at first. Coming on top of the other wrench made it extra painful for a while—that's all. By to-morrow morning I'll be skipping like the silly old hills in the Scriptures."
"Hope so; but you don't want to overdo the imitation, you know. Give nature a chance to make the cure complete. Otherwise—well, you must've had a pretty rotten stupid time of it, with that storm."