“Get some ’ot water and towels and telephone for Dr. Paul,” commanded Andy tersely.
As Gillis left to fill Andy’s commission, Connie fell on her knees by the bedside and wept with wild and passionate violence. “Oh, Donald! Donald!” she sobbed, “you fought for me. I love you! I love you! Oh, Andy,” turning her streaming eyes to the little man, “he won’t die, will he? Tell me he won’t die!” Her trembling fingers were smoothing Donald’s dark hair, and she kissed his battered face tenderly, all the while calling his name hysterically.
With tears in his eyes and a heart full of sympathy, little Andy looked down on the recumbent form of his unconscious friend. “ ’E’s all right, Connie. ’E’ll be all right in a few days,” he answered her in a choking voice.
Donald stirred as Andy applied the water, and his one good eye opened slowly. “Did I win?” he questioned weakly.
“You bet your blinkin’ life you did.”
When Donald’s gaze rested on Connie his face twisted into a wry smile. He reached for her hand and held it in a firm pressure. “Good little sport,” he whispered through split lips.
Connie felt as though her heart would burst. Scorching tears ran down her face, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she controlled the suffocating sobs that filled her throat.
The sound of the big mill whistle smote their ears in a wild medley of short, sharp blasts, quite unlike the decorous tone that summoned and dismissed the men.
“What’s that?” asked Donald, attempting to sit up.
“The engineer is celebrating, Donnie. The men ’ave returned to work. The strike is broken.”