“How’s Scotty Meisch?” he asked—rather inconsequentially as the enthusiastic editor thought.
“Oh, Scotty Meisch? He’s all right. Slight concussion of the brain—will be out of the hospital in about two weeks. But Miss Holden, as it turned out, did the lad a mighty good turn in rushing him to the hospital He was unconscious when they got there. She knew more than Doc Burke—or saw more; or else the Doc could not deny himself the excitement of seeing you tackle Gin Fizz. But there’s no selfishness in Grail Holden’s make-up—not one little streak.”
In a flash Roderick Warfield saw everything under a new light, and a great glow of happiness stole into his heart. It was not indifference for him that had made Gail Holden miss the outlaw contest. What a fool he had been to get such a notion into his head.
“Guess I’ll go and feed Badger,” he said, as he turned away abruptly and left the room.
“When you come back I’ve a lot more to talk about,” shouted Grant, resuming his seat and making a grab for his lead-pencil.
But it was several hours before Roderick returned. He had baited the pony, watched him feed, and just drowsed away the afternoon among the fragrant bales of hay—drowsing without sleeping, chewing a straw and thinking all the time.
At last he strolled in upon the still busy scribe. Grant threw down his pencil.
“Thought you had slipped away again to the hills and the starlight and all that sort of thing. I’m as hungry as a hunter. Let’s go down town and eat.”
“I’m with you,” assented Roderick. “But after dinner I want to see Major Buell Hampton. Is he likely to be at home?”
“It was about Buell Hampton I was going to speak to you. Oh, you don’t know the news.” Grant was hopping around in great excitement, changing his jacket, whisking the new coat vigorously. “But there, I am pledged again to secrecy—Good God, what a life for a newspaper man to lead, bottled up all the time!”