King Horn moved uneasily. Of course, he had been pushing the ship a bit that day.
“That confounded kid!” he grumbled unconvincingly. His eyes rested upon the back of her neck, with its tendrils of curly, fair hair.
Lyle Tennant worked on. Her fingers were cool—very cool—on his arm. She used the swab gently but the iodine stung like a tongue of flame.
In silence she bound up the arm. The cut jumped from the forearm to the bulge of the biceps, so she made two bandages of it, leaving his elbow free.
“If you’ll wait a moment I’ll sew up your sleeve,” she said tonelessly.
“Thanks, Lyle,” he said, as she finished knitting the bandage. He fumbled at the torn shirt. “Never mind this. I’ve got some other shirts. If I keep on cracking ’em up like this your dad will run out of planes before I run out of shirts.” He grinned at her hopefully, alert for the first symptoms of an answering smile in the corners of her mouth.
Suddenly Lyle Tennant flung the roll of bandage onto the desk. Her eyes raised suddenly to meet his. They blazed at him as she lifted her hands in a single gesture of despair.
“Oh, I can stand a fool so much better than a man who plays the fool!” she exclaimed. She dropped into the chair that he had sat in and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with sudden, uncontrollable sobs.
Startled, utterly bewildered, King Horn stared at her. She looked so much smaller than usual in that attitude of complete abandonment to grief. He touched her on the shoulder feebly, humbly. “Lyle,” he muttered. “Lyle!”
“Go away!” she gasped, recoiling from his fingers. “Go away!” She covered her face in her arms on the desk and continued to weep.