“I don't know for sure, and guess it's better I don't,” replied Andrew, sternly.
Then all at once as they stood there a woman came up with a swift, gliding motion and a long trail of black skirts straight to Fanny, who was the only woman there. There were still a great many men and boys standing about. The woman, Cynthia Lennox, caught Fanny's arm with a nervous grip. Her finely cut face was very white under the nodding plumes of her black bonnet.
“Is he in there?” she asked, in a strained voice, pointing to the shop.
Fanny stared at her. She was half dazed. She did not know whether she was referring to the wounded man or Robert.
Andrew was quicker in his perceptions.
“They carried him off to the hospital in the ambulance,” he told her. Then he added, as gently as if he had been addressing Ellen: “I guess he wasn't hurt so very bad. He came to before they took him away.”
“You don't know anything about it,” Fanny said, sharply. “I heard them say something about his eyes.”
“His eyes!” gasped Cynthia. She held tightly to Fanny, who looked at her with a sudden passion of sympathy breaking through her curiosity.
“Oh, I guess he wasn't hurt so very bad; he did come to. I heard him speak,” she said, soothingly. She laid her hard hand over Cynthia's slim one.
“They took him to the hospital?”