A heated discussion was progressing there about something in connection with the game of cards they were playing. They appealed to Hopkins as he joined the group. This did not seem to add peace to the scene, for the quarrel waxed hotter, and the voices grew louder.
Presently there was the sound of a scuffle, during which was heard the report of a pistol. Immediately there was a stampede, and when the officer, who had been attracted to the spot by the noise, rushed in, followed by a small crowd of men and boys, no one was to be seen but Harry Hazeley. He was lying on the floor by the stove, and gave no sign of life as the officer rolled him over. Whether the pistol had been fired accidentally or intentionally, nobody knew. The shot, however, was certainly not intended for the one who received it. It was found on examination that Harry was wounded in the side. He had also, in falling struck his head against the edge of the stove, and cut it.
"Well," said the officer, "I guess we'll have to take this young fellow to the hospital. From his looks he'll not be likely to have a better place to go to, even if he could tell where he belonged."
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE HOSPITAL AND OUT AGAIN.
WHEN Harry Hazeley returned to consciousness, he found himself in bed in one of the wards of a hospital, with his head bound up, and a dull aching in his side. He was in too much pain to wonder how he came there, so he closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep, but he could not. It seemed as if his mind had never been so active as it was now that he longed to forget everything, in the hope that this might ease his throbbing head. But that troublesome thing, memory, would assert itself, and his thoughts would travel back to the home he had left, and the sorrowing ones in it, and,—perhaps it was owing to the weak state of his system,—the tears forced themselves from underneath his eyelids, and rolled down his cheeks. But what is the good of thinking about these things? he mentally asked, and so he impatiently brushed the tears away.
Poor Harry had a hard time of it. He did not improve very rapidly, although he had the best of attention and nursing. His system was so poisoned by the use of alcohol, and he was so weak from having been so long without nourishing food that, while his wound was not a very serious one, it nearly cost him his life.
The pain from his wound, together with a low fever, racked his system until it was almost unbearable. His brain, however, was unusually active, and over and over again did he recall his life since he left home, and each time his repugnance grew; and when he began to convalesce, and he realized there was hope for him, he determined to lead a different life as soon as he was able to be around again. He sincerely and deeply repented of the past, and he felt the need of a Saviour, as he had never done before. He longed for some one to come and tell him of the Christ and of his saving power. He fully realized that he must have a helper, stronger than his will or his resolutions.
One morning, when Harry was getting a little more strength, there hobbled over to his bedside a crippled young man, who supported himself upon crutches. His body was distorted, and his legs were drawn up and twisted in a sad manner; but his face was bright and cheerful and intelligent, and his shoulders, arms, and hands had a look of manliness and strength about them that was greatly at variance with the feebleness of the rest of his frame.
"Well, friend," said this odd mixture of strength and weakness, as he seated himself slowly and cautiously by the bed. "Well, friend, how goes the world with you?"