He drew blood, muttered over the state of Jack’s innards, inquired after any existing neuralgia, prescribed a daily dose of castor oil and generally poked and prodded in a wholly unpleasant way.“Nobody’s ever sent two runners for me before,” the doctor said, persisting in making small talk as he peered at Jack’s head. He probed at the swelling, nodding and making assessing sounds. “Much less seven of them, all shouting to come quick.”Jack winced, remembering his and Grace’s hurried departure from the sledding hill and their eventful return to the streets of Morrow Creek. Given the way she’d hollered for people to let them pass, anyone would have thought Jack had sustained a dreadful injury—not a simple conk to the noggin.“Miss Crabtree has quite a command of the newsboys employed by the Pioneer Press,” he explained. “Most of them have worked with her and her father for a long time.”“Hmm. That reward couldn’t have hurt either.”“No.” Jack said nothing else.
