Kenny groaned.

“Sit down,” said Frank kindly.  “Where’s some brandy?  Thank you, Doctor.  Now, Kenny, listen, please.  The first risk to Brian’s life is past.  I mean death from shock.  He’s not drowsy and he’s feeling pain.  His leg, in the face of other possibilities, is merely painful.  But I must look at his head—­”

“Frank, darlin’,” said Kenny patiently, “I brought you up here to order us all around.  Go to it.”

He flung himself into a chair by the stove and drowsing after a while in a reactive sweep of exhaustion, awakened with a terrified jerk.  A boy was banking the red-hot stove, his white face like and yet unlike—­Joan’s.

“Mr. O’Neill,” he blurted with a boyish sob, “I—­I did it.  I was driving the mule-cart up the path.  Grogan told me not to but I—­I coaxed Tony.  And when some earth crumbled ahead I jerked back—­too quickly—­and scared the mule.  I’ve got to tell somebody.  I’ve got to. . . .  And nobody listens—­”

“Tell me the rest,” said Kenny wanly.  “I’ve been wonderin’.”

“You see, Mr. O’Neill,” he gulped, his eyes dark with grief and horror, “the mule went back upon his haunches and drove the cart against a boulder.  It came out and crashed over the ledge and through the roof of the dynamite shack—­”

“God!” In that vivid moment of his picturing, Kenny wondered why he should think of bouillon cups crashing loudly on a roof.

“And the other men were only scratched.  A while ago—­when Brian sent for me—­he thought of it through all his pain—­”

“He would,” said Kenny.

“I—­I wanted to kill myself.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Kenny kindly.

Don flung his arm across his eyes and sobbed aloud.

“Oh,” he choked, “if someone would only swear at me!”

“I—­I’d like to,” said Kenny wryly, “for your sake and for my own, but I’m all—­in.”

He stared dully at the fire until the stair creaked and Frank came in with Doctor Cole.

“There isn’t yet,” Frank told him, “a single pressure symptom that I consider alarming and Doctor Cole has done wonders with his leg.  But any emotional excitement is a danger.  Three minutes, old man.”  He followed Kenny up the stairway, watch in hand.

The raftered room was dim and quiet.  Kenny sickened at the faint odor of antiseptics and softly closed the door.

Brian opened his eyes.

“Kenny, old dear,” he said softly, “all these doctors are boobs.  Frank in particular is an awful ass.  I told him so.  He’s loaded with fool questions.  One look at the Irish face of you is worth them all.”

Kenny, staring at the pallid face upon the pillow, blinked and smiled.

“Frank told me you drove up here through the sleet,” marveled Brian, clinging to his hand.  “A god-forsaken spot!  I’m sorry—­”

“Three minutes!” warned Frank Barrington at the door.  He knew Kenny much too well to trust him further.