and got ’em by the bits, but by that time he was all tangled up in the lines.  Those damned mules lifted him off his feet and started to run.  Down the draw and up the bank and across the fields they went, with that big plough-blade jumping three or four feet in the air every clip.  I was sure it would cut one of the mules open, or go clean through Claude.  It would have got him, too, if he hadn’t kept his hold on the bits.  They carried him right along, swinging in the air, and finally ran him into the barb-wire fence and cut his face and neck up.”

“My goodness!  Did he get cut bad?”

“No, not very, but yesterday morning he was out cultivating corn, all stuck up with court plaster.  I knew that was a fool thing to do; a wire cut’s nasty if you get overheated out in the dust.  But you can’t tell a Wheeler anything.  Now they say his face has swelled and is hurting him terrible, and he’s gone to town to see the doctor.  You’d better go over there tonight, and see if you can make him take care of himself.”

Leonard drove on, and Ernest went back to his team.  “It’s queer about that boy,” he was thinking.  “He’s big and strong, and he’s got an education and all that fine land, but he don’t seem to fit in right.”  Sometimes Ernest thought his friend was unlucky.  When that idea occurred to him, he sighed and shook it off.  For Ernest believed there was no help for that; it was something rationalism did not explain.

The next afternoon Enid Royce’s coupe drove up to the Wheeler farmyard.  Mrs. Wheeler saw Enid get out of her car and came down the hill to meet her, breathless and distressed.  “Oh, Enid!  You’ve heard of Claude’s accident?  He wouldn’t take care of himself, and now he’s got erysipelas.  He’s in such pain, poor boy!”

Enid took her arm, and they started up the hill toward the house.  “Can I see Claude, Mrs. Wheeler?  I want to give him these flowers.”

Mrs. Wheeler hesitated.  “I don’t know if he will let you come in, dear.  I had hard work persuading him to see Ernest for a few moments last night.  He seems so low-spirited, and he’s sensitive about the way he’s bandaged up.  I’ll go to his room and ask him.”

“No, just let me go up with you, please.  If I walk in with you, he won’t have time to fret about it.  I won’t stay if he doesn’t wish it, but I want to see him.”

Mrs. Wheeler was alarmed at this suggestion, but Enid ignored her uncertainty.  They went up to the third floor together, and Enid herself tapped at the door.

“It’s I, Claude.  May I come in for a moment?”

A muffled, reluctant voice answered.  “No.  They say this is catching, Enid.  And anyhow, I’d rather you didn’t see me like this.”

Without waiting she pushed open the door.  The dark blinds were down, and the room was full of a strong, bitter odor.  Claude lay flat in bed, his head and face so smothered in surgical cotton that only his eyes and the tip of his nose were visible.  The brown paste with which his features were smeared oozed out at the edges of the gauze and made his dressings look untidy.  Enid took in these details at a glance.