Part 9 (1/2)

He was conscious, though very weak and in great pain, and on opening his eyes he whispered, ”Water.”

For more than an hour he had longed for it, until his parched tongue was ready to cleave to the roof of his mouth, but n.o.body had come near him, and he could not make himself heard above the noise of the children.

Taking the tin dipper that lay on a chair beside the bed Derrick went out to the hydrant to fill it with the cool mountain water that flowed there.

Paul drew a tattered window-shade so that the hot western sun should not s.h.i.+ne full in the sick boy's face, loosened his s.h.i.+rt at the neck, smoothed back the matted hair from his forehead, and with a threatening shake of his crutch, drove a howling dog and several screaming children from the room.

These little attentions soothed the sufferer, and he looked up gratefully and wonderingly at Paul. When Derrick returned with the water he lifted his head, and stretched out his hand eagerly for it. At that moment Mrs. Tooley came bustling to the bedside to see what the boys were doing. Catching sight of the dipper she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from Derrick's hand, crying out that it would kill the boy to give him cold water, ”and him ragin' wid a fever.” This so frightened the boys that they hurriedly took their departure, and poor Bill cast such a wistful, despairing glance after them as they left the house that their hearts were filled with pity for him.

At the supper-table that evening Derrick asked:

”Does it hurt people who have a fever to give them water, mother?”

”No, dear; I do not think it does. My experience teaches me to give feverish patients all the cooling drinks they want.”

Then Derrick told her what he had seen and learned of Bill Tooley's condition that afternoon. He so excited her pity by his description of the dirt, noise, and neglect from which the sick lad was suffering that she finally exclaimed, ”Poor fellow! I wish we had room to take care of him here!”

”Do you, mother, really? I wanted to ask you, but was almost afraid to, if he couldn't come here and have my room till he gets well. You see he's always treated Polly worse than he has me, and yet Polly risked his life for him. It isn't anywhere near so much to do as that, of course; but I'd like to give up my room to him, and nurse him when I was home, if you could look after him a little when I wasn't. I can sleep on the floor close to the bed, and be ready to wait on him nights. You know I always liked the floor better than a bed, anyway, and I believe he'll die if he stays where he is.”

They knew each other so well, this mother and son, that a question of this kind was easily settled between them. Though both fully realized what a task they were undertaking, it was decided that if his parents would consent Bill Tooley should be brought to their house to be nursed.

When Monk Tooley came up from the mine that evening and examined the check-board to see how the numbers to his credit compared with the tally he had kept, he became very angry, and accused the check boss of cheating him. The latter said he knew nothing about it. There were the checks to speak for themselves. He had hung each one on the peg as it came up.

”Den dey've been stolen!” exclaimed the angry man, ”an' if I catch him as done it, I'll make him smart for it, dat's all.”

The check boss tried to show him how perfectly useless it would be for anybody to steal another's checks. ”You know yourself it wouldn't do him any good, Tooley,” he said. ”He couldn't claim anything on 'em, or make any kind of a raise on 'em; besides I've been right here every minute of the day, barrin' a couple when I ran inside the breaker on an errand.

Then I left Job Taskar, as honest a man as there is in the colliery, to keep watch, and he said nothing pa.s.sed while I was gone.”

”Well,” answered Monk Tooley, ”I'm cheated outer three loads, and you know what dat is ter a man what's worked overtime ter make 'em, an' has sickness and doctor's bills at home. But I'll catch de thief yet, an'

when I do he'll wish he'd never know'd what a check was.”

As he was walking down the street after supper, smoking a pipe and thinking of his sick boy, who seemed to have grown worse since morning, and of his lost checks, Monk Tooley was accosted by Derrick Sterling, who said,

”Good-evening, Mr. Tooley. How's Bill this evening?”

”None de better fer your askin',” was the surly answer, for the man felt very bitter against Derrick, to whom he attributed all his son's trouble.

”I'm sorry to hear that he isn't any better,” continued the boy, determined not to be easily rebuffed.

”Well, I'm glad yer sorry, an' wish yer was sorrier.”

This did not seem to promise a very pleasant conversation, but Derrick persevered, saying,

”It must be very hard for Mrs. Tooley to keep so many children quiet, and I believe the doctor said Bill must not be troubled by noise, didn't he?”

”Yes, an' if ye'd muzzle yer own mouth de whole place would be quieter.”

”My mother wanted me to say to you that if you'd like to send Bill over to our house for a few days, it's so quiet over there that she thought it would do him good, and she'd be very glad to have him,” said Derrick, plunging boldly into the business he had undertaken to manage.