"You're going to-day?" Dave's calmness gave no indication of his feelings. Nor did he offer to shake hands.
Truscott nodded. Then—
"The smash—was it a very bad one?"
"Pretty bad."
"It—it won't interfere with your work—I hope?"
"Some."
Dave's eyes were fixed steadily upon his visitor, who let his gaze wander. There was something painfully disconcerting in the lumberman's cold regard, and in the brevity of his replies.
"Doc Symons told me about it," the other went on presently. "He was fetched here in the night. He said you were hurt. But you seem all right."
Dave made it very hard for him. There were thoughts in the back of his head, questions that must be answered. For an instant a doubt swept over him, and his restless eyes came to a standstill on the rugged face of the master of the mills. But he saw nothing there to reassure him, or to give him cause for alarm. It was the same as he had always known it, only perhaps the honest gray eyes lacked their kindly twinkle.
"Yes, I'm all right. Doc talks a heap."