It was Steve. A subdued and furtive Steve. Kirk's heart leaped at the
sight of him. It was as if he had found something solid to cling to in
a shifting world.
"Come in, Steve."
He spoke huskily. Steve sidled into the studio, embarrassment written
on every line of him.
"Don't mind my butting in, do you? I've been walking up and down and
round the block till every cop on the island's standing by waiting for
me to pull something. Another minute and they'd have pinched me on
suspicion. I just felt I had to come and see how Miss Ruth was making
out."
"The doctor was down here just now. He said everything was going well."
"I guess he knows his business."
There was a silence. Kirk's ears were straining for sounds from above.
"It's hell," said Steve.
Kirk nodded. This kind of talk was more what he wanted. The doctor
meant well, but he was too professional. Steve was human.
"Go and get yourself a drink, Steve. I expect you need one."
Steve shook his head.
"Waggon," he said briefly. And there was silence again.
"Say, Kirk."
"Yes?"
"What a wonder she is. Miss Ruth, I mean. I've helped her throw that
medicine-ball--often--you wouldn't believe. She's a wonder." He paused.
"Say, this is hell, ain't it?"
Kirk did not answer. It was very quiet in the studio now. In the street
outside a heavy waggon rumbled part.
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