“He's shweatin'!” he gabbled. “He's shweatin'! He'll be well—Conlon.”
It made Harding think of the “pup,” and how he would dance about him, when he went home, in the crude expression of joy. Conlon's face was damp. He muttered no more. They piled the blankets on him till the perspiration stood out in drops. Conlon breathed softly and slept. Kelly babbled gently, “Conlon! Conlon!”
Harding went back to the window and rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“Kind of too bad, after all that trouble to get him peeled.”
The morning was breaking, solemn, noiseless, with lifted banners and wide pageantries, over river and city.
Harding yawned.
“It's one on Father Ryan, anyway. That's a good thing. Blamed old windbag!”
Kelly murmured ecstatically, “Conlon will get well—Conlon!”