“He will not die!” said Donna.
The doctor looked at her curiously. “I hope not” he said. “But he'll need a trained nurse and the best of care to pull through. It's long odds.”
“That young feller's middle name is Long Odds.” Mr. Hennage had arrived at the conclusion that Donna needed a great deal of comforting at that moment. “He's lived on long odds ever since he came into this country.”
“How do you know, Hennage?” the doctor demanded. “I tell—”
“Long odds an' long guns, like birds o' feather always flock together” the gambler answered him drily, “This young feller wouldn't feel that he was gettin' any joy out o' life if he didn't tackle the nub end o' the deal. I'm layin' even money he comes up to the young lady's expectations.”
Donna thanked him with her eyes, and Harley P. crossed to the door and looked down the long patio to where a small white wooden cross gleamed through the festoons of climbing roses.
“He ought to have a nurse” the doctor advised Donna.
“Very well, doctor. You will telephone to Bakersfield, or Los Angeles, will you not, and engage one?”
“I don't think our patient can afford the expense. Hennage frisked him and all the money—”
“Thank you, I will attend to the financial side of this case, Doctor Taylor.”