"Take that thar head wrappin' off!" ordered the old man peremptorily.
A nurse carefully unwound the rough woolen scarf and as she did so a mass of red hair fell across the pillow, hair that in spite of its matted disorder showed flashes of gleaming gold.
"We'll get her on the bed," a night nurse said to an assistant. "Put your arm under her knees. Don't jar the stretcher!"
Before the novice could obey another and a stronger arm was thrust forward.
"Stand back thar, some of you-uns," commanded a loud voice, "I'll holp move Sal myself."
In vain were protests from nurses and orderlies alike, the old mountaineer seemed bent on making good use of his one arm and with quick dexterity he helped to lift her on the bed.
"Now, whar's the doctor?" he demanded, standing with feet far apart and head thrown back.
The doctor was at the desk in the corridor, speaking to Miss Fletcher in an undertone:
"We only made a superficial examination down-stairs," he was saying, "but it is evidently a ruptured appendix. If she's living in a couple of hours I may be able to operate. But it's ten to one she dies on the table."
"Who are they, and where did they come from?" Miss Fletcher asked curiously.