Mrs. Tynan's instinct was right. By the time she had put the bed into
shape, got a bowl of water ready, lighted a lamp, and drawn the bed out
from the wall, there was a knocking at the door. In a moment she had
opened it, and was faced by John Sibley, whose hat was off as though he
were in the presence of death. This gave her a shock, and her eyes
strove painfully to see the figure which was being borne feet foremost
over her threshold.
"It's Mr. Crozier?" she asked.
"He was shot coming home here--by the M'Mahon mob, I guess," returned
Sibley huskily.
"Is--is he dead?" she asked tremblingly. "No. Hurt bad."
"The kindest man--it'd break Kitty's heart--and mine," she added hastily,
for she might be misunderstood; and John Sibley had shown signs of
interest in her daughter.
"Where's the Young Doctor?" she asked, catching sight of Crozier's face
as they laid him on the bed. "He's done the first aid, and he's off
getting what's needed for the operation. He'll be here in a minute or
so," said a banker who, a few days before, had refused Crozier credit.
"Gently, gently--don't do it that way," said Mrs. Tynan in sharp reproof
as they began to take off Crozier's clothes.
"Are you going to stay while we do it?" asked a maker of mineral waters,
who whined at the prayer meetings of a soul saved and roared at his
employees like a soul damned.
"Oh, don't be a fool!" was the impatient reply.
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