"But if I'm not hurt much—"
Grannis fingered his forelock in obvious discomfort.
"Well, between you and me, it's this way. They ripped a seam for you—so far," he indicated, "and it's open yet."
Turning his free left arm, Ben touched the bandage at his side, and the hand came back moist and red. Now that it occurred to him, he was ridiculously weak.
"I see. I'm liable to rip it more," he commented slowly.
The other nodded. "Yes; don't talk. I ought to have stopped you before this."
"Grannis!" There was no escaping the blue eyes this time. "Honestly, now, am I liable to be—done for, or not?"
The foreman became instantly serious. "Honest, if you keep quiet you're all right. Doc said so not an hour ago. At first he thought different, that you'd never wake up; you bled like a pig with its throat cut; but this is what he told me when he left. 'Keep him quiet. It may take a month for that gap to heal, but if you're careful he'll pull through.'" Again the look of concern, and this time of contrition as well. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for letting you talk at all; but this is straight. Now don't say any more."
This time Ben obeyed. He couldn't well do otherwise. He had suddenly grown weak and drowsy, and almost before Grannis was through speaking he was again asleep.
The doctor was right about the time of healing. During the remainder of that month and well into the next, despite his restless protests, Ben Blair was a prisoner in that dull little room; and through it all Grannis remained with him.