"Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!" he said.
"I don't want any other doctor," she murmured. "I'd rather have you."
"But I'm not a doctor."
"No," she acquiesced. "Who are you? Did you tell me? You are one of the
passengers, aren't you?"
"I'm the station-agent at Manzanita."
For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. "Are you? I don't seem to
understand. My head is very queer."
"Don't try to. Here's some tea and crackers."
"I'm starved," she said.
With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he had
prepared for her while heating the water. But he was wise enough to know
that she must not have much while the extent of her injury was still
undetermined.
"Are you wet?" he inquired.
She nodded. "I haven't been dry since the flood."
"I have a room with a real stove in it over the station. I'll build a
fire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and sleep. If
you need anything you can hammer on the floor."
"But you--"
"I'll be in my office, below. I'm on night duty to-night," said he,
tactfully fabricating.
"Very well. You're awfully kind."
He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, and
hurried to his room to build the promised fire.
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