Harkless had been lying in a long stupor; suddenly he spoke,
quite loudly, and the young surgeon, Gay, who leaned over him, remembered
the words and the tone all his life.
"Away and away--across the waters," said John Harkless. "She was here--
once--in June."
"What is it, John?" whispered Meredith, huskily. "You're easier, aren't
you?"
And John smiled a little, as if, for an instant, his swathed eyes
penetrated the bandages, and saw and knew his old friend again.
That same night a friend of Rodney McCune's sent a telegram from Rouen:
"He is dying. His paper is dead. Your name goes before convention in
September."
CHAPTER XIII
JAMES FISBEE
On Monday morning three men sat in council in the "Herald" office; that
is, if staring out of dingy windows in a demented silence may be called
sitting in council; that was what Mr. Fisbee and Parker and Ross Schofield
were doing. By almost desperate exertions, these three and Bud Tipworthy
had managed to place before the public the issues of the paper for the
previous week, unaided by their chief, or, rather, aided by long accounts
of his condition and the manner of his mishap; and, in truth, three copies
were at that moment in the possession of Dr. Gay, accompanied by a note
from Parker warning the surgeon to exhibit them to his patient only as a
last resort, as the foreman feared the perusal of them might cause a
relapse.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245