“He may never walk again,” the sentence haunted him. “A pitiable case! He’ll never be able to take his place again in the ranks of the mounted.”
He wondered what Cameron would say when the news had been brought to him. And Sergeant Richardson—what would he say? Rand! One of the noblest, bravest spirits that had ever come into that land of noble and brave spirits. No longer a policeman? That seemed incomprehensible. Rand in civilian clothes? Dick snorted at the mere suggestion. To think of the service at all, was to think of Rand. Rand might have his feet frozen, yea, and his arms too, and his body hopelessly crushed; yet, notwithstanding this, in spirit, in reality, in fact, he would still be a policeman, and nothing else. A mounted policeman. A scarlet-coated, high-booted, undaunted and courageous soul.
He was still brooding over this when they pulled up at the noon hour, hilarious and joyful. They had made a record run that morning, in spite of the late start. Drivers shouted at each other as they stepped from the back of their sledges and dropped their whips. Dick moved automatically, and he, too, dropped his whip. But he did not shout. He did not even smile.
“Hello, Dick.”
“Hello.”
“We made good time, didn’t we?” The voice was that of Dr. Brady.
“I guess we did.”
“Hope this keeps up.”
“Yes.”
“Good gracious, boy,” exclaimed Brady in alarm, “you look—why you look positively ill.”