"He's here, isn't he?"
Guy Little instead of making a prompt and direct answer presented as
puzzled a countenance as the girl ever saw. He was in slippers and
shirtsleeves; he had a large volume which in his hands appeared little
less than huge; his hair was as badly tousled as Terry's own; his eyes
were frankly bewildered. Terry spoke again impatiently:
"Answer me and don't gawk at me! Is the doctor here?"
"For the love of Pete!" was quite all that Guy Little offered in
response.
She sniffed and pushed by him, standing in the hallway and for the
first time in her life fairly in the lion's den. She looked about her
with lively interest.
"Say," said Little then. "Hold on a minute."
He came quietly close to her, his slipper-feet falling soundlessly.
"Doc Bridges is in there with the ol' man." He jerked his head toward
the big library and living-room whose door stood closed in their faces.
"They're playin' chess. Unless your sick man's dyin' I guess you
better wait until they get through. Even if he is dyin'----"
"I'll do nothing of the kind!" retorted Terry emphatically. "When I've
raced all the way from Red Creek, banging my car all up, risking my
precious life every jump of the way, doing the trip in fifty-three
minutes do you think that------"
"Hey?" cried Guy Little. "How's that? How many minutes?
Fifty-three, you said, didn't you? Fifty-three minutes from Red Crick
to here? Hey?"
"Is the man crazy?" demanded Terry.
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