"It's better, isn't it?" Roscoe asked anxiously.
"Sure it is. It's only strained—that's different from being sprained—and my head's all right now."
"What will you do?" Roscoe asked, looking troubled and unconvinced in spite of Tom's assurances.
"I was going to come up here and camp alone over the Fourth of July, anyway," said Tom. "I always meant to do that. I'll call this a vacation—as you might say. I got to thank you for that."
"You've got to thank me for a whole lot," said Roscoe ironically; "for a broken head and a lame ankle and missing all the fun last night, and losing your job, maybe."
"I ain't worryin'," said Tom. "I hit the right trail."
"And saved me from being—no, I'm one, anyway, now——"
"No, you ain't; you just got rattled. Now you can see straight, so you have to go back right away. As soon as my foot's better, I'll go down to Temple Camp. That'll be to-morrow—or sure day after to-morrow. I'm going to look around the camp and see if everything is all right, and then I'll hike into Leeds and go down by the train. If I was to go limping back, they might think things; and, anyway, it's better for you to get there alone."
"Are you sure your foot'll be all right?" Roscoe asked.
"Sure. I'll read that book of yours, and maybe I'll catch some trout for lunch ..."