Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his chair. Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.
"I believe you're a miracle-worker," he said. "Two days ago, I was in bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope. Now I've got all three."
"No miracle," replied the other modestly. "Merely sense."
That afternoon the Crosby twins telephoned to know whether they might call, and the nurse brought the query upstairs. "If they're amusing," said the doctor, "let 'em come."
Allison replied that the twins had been highly amusing—until they ran "The Yellow Peril" over his left hand. "Poor little devils," he mused; "they've got something on their minds."
"Mighty lucky for you that it wasn't a macadamised boulevard instead of a sandy country road," observed the doctor. "The softness underneath has given us a doubt to work on."
"How so?"
"It's easier, to crush anything on a hard surface than it is on a pillow, isn't it?"
"Of course—I hadn't thought of that. If there had been more sand—"
"I look to you to furnish that," returned the other with a quick twist of meaning. "You've got plenty of sand, if you have half a chance to show it."