"Fairbanks," he said, "this is a serious matter--no, no, I don't mean the fact that the baseball did the damage," he explained hurriedly, as he saw Ralph's face grow pale and troubled. "That was an accident, and something you could not foresee. I mean that this poor fellow is, for the present at least, helpless as a child."
"Doctor," quavered Ralph, "you don't mean his mind is gone."
"I fear it is."
"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" pleaded Ralph, falling against the door post and covering his face with his hands.
He was genuinely distressed. All the brightness of his good luck and prospects seemed dashed out. He could not divest his mind of a certain responsibility for the condition of the poor fellow on the cot, whose usefulness in life had been cut short by an accidental "lost ball."
"Don't be overcome--it isn't like you, Fairbanks," chided the doctor gently. "I know you feel badly--we all do. Let us get at the practical end of this business without delay. We had better get the patient removed to the hospital, first thing."
"No!" interrupted Ralph quickly, "not that, doctor--that is, anyway not yet."
"He needs skillful attention."
"He's needing some hash just now!" put in Will Cheever, approaching, his face, despite himself, on a grin. "Hear him!"
The stranger was certainly sticking to his point. "Hash with lots of onions in it!" they heard him call out.