"Supposing such
a fat old fellow as myself should tell you this. As a doc and a
specialist, would you think there was something worth while the matter
with him?"
Still Chantry did not speak, but the burned-out stump in his fingers
sought a remote corner of the room, consorted with a goodly collection
of its mates, and the drooping eyelid tightened.
"Supposing," continued Landor, "the thing should happen the second time,
and the old fellow, who wasn't good at walking, should be spilled out
and have to foot it home three miles. What would you think then?"
One of Chantry's hands, itself not over clean, dusted the ash off his
vest absently.
"When was it, this last time?" he questioned.
"Yesterday," impassively. "I'd started for here to meet my nephew when
the thing struck me; and when I managed to get home I sent How over
instead." He halted reminiscently. "I wrote the boy to come a couple of
weeks ago--that's when it caught me first."
"Your nephew, Craig, knows about it, does he?"
Landor puffed anew with a shade of embarrassment.
"No. I thought there was no call to tell the folks at the ranch. Mary'd
have a cat-fit if she knew. I told them I got out to shoot at a coyote,
and the bronchos ran away." He glanced at the other explanatorily,
deprecatingly. "Clayton is my sister's son and the only real relative I
have, you know. I just asked him to come on general principles.
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