If the doctor had received the thrust of a pin he could not have jumped from his chair with more startling suddenness than he did at Philip’s words.

“That’s it!” he cried excitedly, beginning to pace back and forth across the cabin floor.  “It’s more than a theory—­it’s a truth—­that people suffer more because of other people than on account of themselves.  We’re born to it and we keep it up, inflicting a thousand pricks and a thousand sorrows to gain one selfish end and it isn’t once in a hundred times that the boomerang comes home and strikes the right one down.  But when it does—­when it does, sir—­”

As suddenly as he had begun, the doctor stopped, and he laughed a little unnaturally.  “Bosh!” he exclaimed.  “Let’s see that head of yours, Steele.  Speaking of pains and pricks reminds me that, being a surgeon, I may be of some assistance to you.”

Philip knew that he had checked himself with an effort, and as his new acquaintance began to loosen the bandage he found himself wondering what mysterious mission could have sent a Chicago surgeon up to Fort Smith.  The doctor interrupted his thoughts.

“Queer place for a blow,” he said briskly.  “Nothing serious—­slight abrasion—­trifle feverish.  We’ll set you to rights immediately.”  He bustled to his greatcoat and from one of the deep pockets drew forth a leather medicine case.  “Queer place, queer place,” he chuckled, returning with a vial in his hand.  “Were you running when it happened?”

Philip laughed with him, and by the time the doctor had finished he had given him an account of his affair with DeBar.  Not until hours later, when the Cree had left on his return trip and they sat smoking before a roaring fire after supper, did it occur to him how confidential he had become.  Seldom had Philip met a man who impressed him as did the little surgeon.  He liked him immensely.  He felt that he had known him for years instead of hours, and chatted freely of his adventures and asked a thousand questions about home.  He found that the doctor was even better acquainted with his home city than himself, and that he knew many people whom he knew, and lived in a fashionable quarter.  He was puzzled even as they talked and laughed and smoked their cigarettes and pipes.  The doctor said nothing about himself or his personal affairs, and cleverly changed the conversation whenever it threatened to drift in that direction.

It was late when Philip rose from his chair, suggesting that they go to bed.  He laughed frankly across into the other’s face.

“Boffin—­Boffin—­Boffin,” he mused.

“Strange I’ve never heard of you down south, Doctor.  Now what the deuce can you be doing up here?”

There was a point-blank challenge in his eyes.  The doctor leaned a little toward him, as if about to speak, but caught himself.  For several moments his keen eyes gazed squarely into Philip’s, and when he broke the silence the same nervous flush that Philip had noticed before rose into his cheeks.
  to go roughing it down in South America.  I believe you’re honest—­on
  the square.”