Part 25 (2/2)

Then he put out his hand with a gesture of finality, ”I'm going now. I don't know when--or--well, whether I'll come--” He picked up the package. He was going down the steps with the package in his hands when he heard the patter of little feet and a little voice calling:

”Daddy--daddy--” and repeated, ”daddy.”

He did not turn, but walked quickly to the sidewalk. As far as he could hear, that childish voice called to him.

And he heard the cry in his dreams.

CHAPTER XXIII

HERE GRANT ADAMS DISCOVERS HIS INSIDES

Laura Van Dorn stood watching her husband pa.s.s down the street. She silenced the child by clasping her close in the tender motherly arms. No tears rose in the wife's eyes, as she stood looking vacantly down the street at the corner where her husband had turned. Gradually it came to her consciousness that a crowd was gathering by her father's house. She remembered then that she had seen a carriage drive up, and that three or four men followed it on bicycles, and then half a dozen men got out of a wagon. Even while she stared, she saw the little rattletrap of a buggy that Amos Adams drove come tearing up to the curb by her father's house.

Amos Adams, Jasper and little Kenyon got out. Even amidst the turmoil of her emotions, she moved mechanically to the street, to see better, then she clasped Lila to her breast and ran toward her father's home.

”What is it?” she cried to the first man she met at the edge of the little group standing near the veranda steps.

”Grant Adams--we're afraid he's killed.” The man who spoke was Denny Hogan. Beside him was an Italian, who said, ”He's burned something most awful. He got it saving des feller here,” nodding and pointing to Hogan.

Laura put down her child and hurried through the house to her father's little office. The strong smell of an anesthetic came to her. She saw Amos Adams standing a-tremble by the office door, holding Kenyon's hand.

Amos answered her question.

”They think he's dying,--I knew he'd want to see Kenyon.”

Jasper, white and frightened, stood on the stairs. These details she saw at a glance as she pushed open the office door. At first she saw great George Brotherton and three or four white-faced, terrified working men, standing in stiff helplessness, while like a white shuttle, among the gloomy figures the Doctor moved quickly, ceaselessly, effectively. Then her eyes met her father's. He said:

”Come in, Laura--I need you. Now all of you go out but George and her.”

Then, as she came into the group, Laura saw Grant Adams, sitting with agony upon his wet face. Her father bent over him and worked on a puffy, pink, naked arm and shoulder, and body. The man was half conscious; his face was twitching, and when she looked again she saw where his right hand should be only a brown, charred stump.

Not looking up the Doctor spoke: ”You know where things are and what I need--I can't get him clear under,” Every motion he made counted; he took no false steps; he made no turn of his body or twist of his hand that was not full of conscious purpose. He only spoke to give orders, and when Brotherton whispered to Laura:

”White hot lead pig at the smelter--Grant saw it was going to kill Hogan and grabbed it.”

The Doctor shook his head at Brotherton and for two hours that was all Laura knew of the accident. Once when the Doctor stopped for a second to take a deep breath, Brotherton asked, ”Do you want another doctor?” the little man shook his head again, and motioned with it at his daughter.

”She's doing well enough.” She kept her father's merciless pace, but always the sense of her stricken life seemed to be hovering in the back of her consciousness, and the hours seemed ages as she applied her bandages, and helped with the gruesome work of the knife on the charred stump of the arm. But finally it was over and she saw Brotherton and Hogan lift Grant to a cot, under her father's direction, and carry him to the bedroom she had used as a girl at home. While the Doctor and Laura had been working in his office Mrs. Nesbit had been making the bedroom ready.

It was five o'clock, and the two f.a.gged women were in Mrs. Nesbit's room. The younger woman was pale and haggard and unable to relax. The mother tried all of a mother's wiles to bring peace to the over-strung nerves. But the daughter paced the floor silently, or if she spoke it was to ask some trivial question about the household--about what arrangements were made for the injured man's food, about Lila, about Amos Adams and Kenyon. Finally, as she turned to leave the room, her mother asked, ”Where are you going?” The daughter answered, ”Why, I'm going home.”

”But Laura,” the mother returned, ”I believe your father is expecting your help here--to-night. I am sure he will need you.” The daughter looked steadily, but rather vacantly at her mother for a moment, then replied: ”Well, Lila and I must go now. I'll leave her there with the maid and I'll try to come back.”

Her hand was on the door-k.n.o.b. ”Well,” hesitated her mother, ”what about Tom--?”

The eyes of the two women met. ”Did father tell you?” asked the daughter's eyes. The mother's eyes said ”Yes.” Then rose the Spartan mother, and put a kind, firm hand upon the daughter's arm and asked: ”But Laura, my dear, my dear, you are not going back again, to all--all that, are you?”

”I am going home, mother,” the daughter replied.

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