How was he hurt, sis'?"
Johnnie did not pause to reflect that she had not said Uncle Pros was
hurt at all. For some reason which she would herself have been at a loss
to explain, she hastened to detail to this chance-met stranger the exact
appearance and nature of Pros Passmore's injuries, her listener nodding
his head at this or that point; making some comment or inquiry
at another.
"The doctors say that they would suppose it was a fractured skull, or
concussion of the brain, or something like that; but they've examined
him and there is nothing to see on the outside; and they trephined and
it didn't do any good; so they just let him stay about the hospital."
"No," said her new friend softly, almost absently, "it didn't do any
good to trephine--but it might have done a lot of harm. I'd like to see
the back of your uncle's neck. I ain't in any hurry to get to that
banquet at Atlanta--a man can always overeat and make himself sick,
without going so far to do it."
So, like an idle schoolboy, the unknown forsook his own course, turning
from the road when Johnnie turned, and went with her up the steep, rocky
gulch where the door of a deserted cabin flung to and fro on its
hinges. At sight of the smokeless chimney, the gaping doorway and empty,
inhospitable interior, Johnnie looked blank.
"Have you got anything to eat?" she asked her companion, hesitatingly.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315