The Doctor [76]
stopped burst open the door, crying out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" Swipey, the saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.
"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked.
"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?"
"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?"
"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys."
Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!"
"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor."
"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp."
"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in."
"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper.
"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!"
"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. "What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? How do you know what he's got?"
"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!"
Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.
"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor remained unmoved.
"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty.
"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him."
The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon."
"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death."
The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?" He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to assert itself.
"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in."
The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to quit."
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. "You've
"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked.
"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?"
"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?"
"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys."
Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!"
"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor."
"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp."
"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in."
"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper.
"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!"
"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. "What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? How do you know what he's got?"
"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!"
Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.
"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor remained unmoved.
"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty.
"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him."
The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon."
"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death."
The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?" He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to assert itself.
"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in."
The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to quit."
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. "You've