“Say, now! Aren’t you feeling pretty bad? We’re going downhill, and it jolts. But we’re near that store. What’s the name?”
“MacGonigal’s.”
“To be sure. I had forgotten. Queer fellow, the proprietor. Looks like a character out of one of Bret Harte’s novels. Is there a doctor in Bison?”
“Yes—of a sort. He’s sober, some days.”
“Let’s hope this is one of the days.”
“Drunk or sober, he can pull a leg straight and tie it in splints.”
“But it ought to be fixed in plaster of Paris. That’s the latest dodge. Then you’ll be able to hobble about in less than a month. Why, here’s the storekeeper himself. He must have been looking this way.”
“He was expecting me. I promised to meet him about four o’clock.”
“Well, you’re on time.”
“Thanks to you.”