“Because your mother isn’t going to drive twelve miles over these tracks after being shot out once,” said Dr. Lane, concisely. “Hurry up, or they’ll never get here before dark.” And Barry went off, wishing that he had a chance of washing his face, on which the blood had dried uncomfortably.
It seemed a long while before they heard the rattle of buggy-wheels and saw Robin driving along the track. She greeted them cheerfully.
“I’ll have to drive on a little way,” she called: “there’s no room to turn here. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”
“Then I may as well get you up to the track,” said Dr. Lane to his wife.
It was not an easy business: both were panting, and Mrs. Lane’s face was very white, when Robin reappeared.
“Mother put a mattress on the floor of the buggy,” she said. “This is what we call an express-waggon, and there’s lots of room behind; Mother said it would be more comfortable than sitting on the seat, with your foot hanging down.”
“Your mother’s a wise woman,” said Dr. Lane, thankfully. He braced his muscles, and lifted his wife into the back of the buggy, where she sat enthroned upon the mattress with the injured foot sticking out stiffly, and declared that she was perfectly comfortable—a manifest untruth, which impressed neither of her hearers. They unloaded the car of all that was portable, and Dr. Lane climbed up beside Robin.
“Ready?” she asked. “Oh—where’s the boy?”
“He has gone to telephone from Merri Creek.”
“But he won’t know where to come afterwards.