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Sudden shock had done
the rest.
He drove to the private hospital of a doctor of his acquaintance, a
member of his club, and gained admission. The doctor himself was
there, by good fortune, and saw Bonbright at once, and examined the
wounds in his scalp.
"Strikers get you?" he asked.
"Automobile mix-up," said Bonbright, weakly.
"Uh-huh!" said the doctor. "I suppose somebody picked up a light
roadster and struck you over the head with it. ... Not cut much. No
stitches. A little adhesive'll do the trick--and then. ... Sort of
excited, eh? Been under a bit of a strain? ... None of my business,
of course. ... Get into bed and I'll send up something to tone you
down and make you sleep. You've been playing in too high a key--your
fiddle strings are too tight."
Getting into that cool, soft bed was one of the pleasantest
experiences of Bonbright's life. He was almost instantly asleep--and
he still slept, even at the deliberate hour that saw his father enter
the office at the mills.


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