The Doctor was sitting in his dilapidated office chair thinking over all
this, when he heard his brother physician's step on the stairs. Harry
came in, dusty and worn, from a long ride in the country on an all-night
case. His tired face lit up when he saw his friend.

"Hello, Doctor! Glad to see you. Has he come? How is he?" While he was
speaking the physician dropped his case, slipped out of his coat, and
was in the lavatory burying his face in cold water by the time the other
was ready to answer. That was Harry, he was never in a hurry, never
seemed to move fast, but people never ceased to wonder at his quickness.

"He's all right," the Doctor muttered, his mind slipping back into the
channel that had started him off to thinking of his fellow physician.
"Got in on the ten-forty. But you look fagged enough. Why the devil don't
you rest, Harry?"

Standing in the doorway rubbing his face, neck, and chest, with a coarse
towel the young man laughed, "Rest, what would I do with a vacation? I'll
be all right, when I get outside of one of Mam Liz's dinners. It was that
baby of Jensen's that kept me. Poor little chap. I thought, two or three
times he was going to make a die of it sure, but I guess he'll pull
through now."

Dr. Oldham knew the Jensens well, eighteen miles over the worst roads in
the country. He growled hoarsely: "It'll be more years than there are
miles between here and Jensen's before you get a cent out of that case.
You're a fool for making the trip; why don't you let 'em get that old
bushwhacker at Salem, he's only three miles away?"