again. He knocked over an andiron right into Faulk's path, and Faulk stumbled forward. Unfortunately,, just as this was happening, Benson apparently decided he needed to say a few parting words. He began to turn around, open his mouth, and step back into the booth.
'Another thing – ' he began, then he squawked as Faulk's fist met his nose. Then they both lost their balance and fell in a heap, banging various bits of iron on the way down.
Amazing, how much blood a simple nosebleed can produce. And how much panic. A few onlookers fled – I like to think they were going in search of help. A few people waded in to separate the combatants, which wasn't really necessary, as Faulk had the wind knocked out of him and couldn't move, and Benson was less interested in fighting man in flailing about dramatically, yelling that he couldn't breathe, and alternately demanding a doctor and a lawyer.
Wesley appeared, like a vulture scenting carrion, and hovered around in everyone's way, taking notes and snapping photos with his little camera. Mrs. Fenniman and the sheriff both showed up and tried to give Benson conflicting forms of first aid, simultaneously. When it looked as if they were about to come to blows over whether to apply cold or heat to his nose, I ordered them to take Benson over to Dad's first-aid tent, and sent Rob after them to try calming Benson down.
Faulk recovered his breath, stood up, dismissed the departing patient with a look, then went out through the back of his booth and began walking very fast, away from the center of the fair.
'Should someone go after him?' Michael asked.
I shook my head.
'He needs to walk his temper off. He'll be fine if we just leave him alone. Although that does leave the problem of what to do about his booth.'
'I can watch it until either he or Tad gets back,' Michael offered. 'I've helped out with yours occasionally, and he's got all the prices marked and everything.'
'That'd be great,' I said.
'What about the dog?' the stout woman said. Now that things had calmed down, the crowd was breaking up, but she still stood just outside the booth, watching Spike, who had tottered over to the railing that marked the outside of the booth and was growling half-heartedly at her. I sighed. I had forgotten that in sending Rob off to deal with Benson I'd saddled myself with Spike.
'You were going to take him to the vet,' the woman reminded me.
'I'll do better than that,' I said, giving Spike's leash a tug to get him moving. 'I'll take him to a doctor.'
'Oh, I'm sure your Dad will love that,' Michael commented, taking a proprietary pose at the back of Faulk's booth.
I helped Michael pick up the booth before I took off – I wasn't anxious to arrive before Dad had finished with Benson. Then I made my way across the town square and over to Dad's booth – actually a large tent at the opposite edge of the green, with a sign over the entrance that said, PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON.
Things looked a little different from when I'd last seen his tent on my way into the fair that morning. Dad had recruited two bedraggled-looking reenactors to lie outside, pretending to be patients and adding atmosphere. The patient to the left of the tent's entrance had a bloody bandage over both eyes. The one on the right appeared to be an amputee until one noticed that there were bits of straw poking out of his truncated leg and that the real leg disappeared into a hole in the ground.
'Very impressive,' I said, as I approached the tent.
'If that miserable beast tries to pee on my leg again, I'll use this,' the faux amputee said, waving an authentically crude wooden crutch.
'Oh, lord,' said the other man, peeking out from under his bandage. 'Hang on to the leash this time, will you?'
So they'd already met Spike.
'Don't worry,' I said, shortening die leash to keep Spike away from them.
'Meg!' Dad said, appearing in the opening of the tent. 'What's up? Another nosebleed?'
I sighed. In just a few hours, he'd managed to give his new colonial costume the same well-worn, rumpled look as all the rest of his clothes. And while he'd carefully grown his hair long enough to tie back in colonial fashion, he had so little hair left that the black velvet ribbon almost hid it. From a distance, it looked as if he'd glued the bow to the back of his largely bald head. Ah, well.
'Could you take a look at Spike?' I asked. 'I'm not sure whether Benson actually kicked him or just tried.'
'Certainly!' Dad said, taking Spike's leash and leading him into the tent. I followed, ignoring the muted cheers for Benson from the two reclining patients.
I looked around. Dad had been improving on the decor inside, too. I'd already seen the ramshackle operating table, the side tables piled with reproductions of period jars and bottles and flasks, and the artistic arrangement of scary-looking metal instruments. The skeleton dangling from the top of the tent was new. And he'd brought in several jars of leeches. His booth was probably the only one in the fair that the Anachronism Police hadn't complained to me about. I wondered if they were impressed by its authenticity or just too horrified to come in.
'Isn't it grand!' he exclaimed, seeing me look around.
'Lovely,' I said, glancing down at the sawdust coating the ground around the operating table. 'Please tell me those aren't real bloodstains.'
'Of course they are,' he said. 'Real chicken blood.'
'I should have guessed,' I said, dragging Spike back from some blood-soaked sawdust that he'd decided looked tasty.
'Let's get the patient on the examination table, shall we?' Dad said, moving several glittering surgical knives aside to make room.
'We?' I said. 'You mean you're going to help me pick him up?'
'Well, maybe you should do it,' he said. 'I don't want to alarm him.'
Didn't want to get bitten, more likely. Because I'd once saved Spike's life, he'd developed an inexplicable and unrequited fondness for me, which meant that my odds of getting bitten were much lower than most people's. Although trying to hold him while Dad performed his examination would normally have leveled out the odds again.
Fortunately, Spike was too busy trying to spit out the blood-soaked sawdust to bite, though keeping him still was a lost cause.
'I can't check his heartbeat unless you can get him to stop growling,' Dad said.
'Fat chance,' I said. 'Besides, it's his ribs I'm worried about, not his evil little heart.'
'Doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his ribs,' Dad said. 'I don't think he's injured at all – just mad as hell.'
Which was normal for Spike. If he'd begun acting angelic, I'd have told Dad to check for a concussion. After a little more poking and prodding, Dad gave Spike a clean bill of health and I took him back to my booth where, to my astonishment, Rob eventually showed up to claim him.
'What a horrible day,' Rob said, 'and more to come. I'd better take Spike back to Mrs. Waterston's house and feed him.'
'Fine,' I said. 'You didn't leave Mr. Benson alone, did you?'
'He went back to his motel,' Rob said, sounding tired.
'Are you sure?'
'I watched him drive off.'
'Good riddance,' I said. 'I hope that's the last we see of him.'
'Well, actually, I think he's coming to Mrs. Waterston's party,' Rob said.
'Are you sure?'
