For once the Old Prospector broke through his wonted philosophic calm. His voice trembled, and his eyes glittered in his excitement.
"Well, well," said the doctor soothingly, noting these symptoms, "wait a week or so. Follow the directions carefully, and we shall see."
"I shall wait a week, doctor, but no longer. In ten days I shall be on the trail."
"Well, well," repeated the doctor, looking keenly into the old man's face, "we won't worry about it for a week."
"No; for a week I am content."
Leaving the Old Prospector's shack Shock conducted the doctor to the little room at the back of the Stopping Place where little Patsy lay. At the door they were met by the mother, vociferous with lamentations, prayers, blessings, and entreaties. Within the room, seated beside the bed, was Carroll, gloomy and taciturn.
The doctor drew back the blind and let in the morning light. It showed poor little Patsy, pale and wasted, his angelic face surrounded with a golden aureole of yellow curls that floated across the white pillow. The doctor was startled and moved.
"What is this?" he cried. "What is the matter?"
"Just an accident, doctor," said Mrs. Carroll volubly. "It was a blow he got."
"I struck him wid a chair," said Carroll bitterly.