Bibbs went as far as the doorway. Gurney sat winding a strip of white cotton, his black bag open upon a chair near by; and Sheridan was striding up and down, his hand so heavily wrapped in fresh bandages that he seemed to be wearing a small boxing-glove. His eyes were bloodshot; his forehead was heavily bedewed; one side of his collar had broken loose, and there were blood-stains upon his right cuff.
“THERE'S our little sunshine!” he cried, as Bibbs appeared. “THERE'S the hope o' the family—my lifelong pride and joy! I want—”
“Keep you hand in that sling,” said Gurney, sharply.
Sheridan turned upon him, uttering a sound like a howl. “For God's sake, sing another tune!” he cried. “You said you 'came as a doctor but stay as a friend,' and in that capacity you undertake to sit up and criticize ME—”
“Oh, talk sense,” said the doctor, and yawned intentionally. “What do you want Bibbs to say?”
“You were sittin' up there tellin' me I got 'hysterical'—'hysterical,' oh Lord! You sat up there and told me I got 'hysterical' over nothin'! You sat up there tellin' me I didn't have as heavy burdens as many another man you knew. I just want you to hear THIS. Now listen!” He swung toward the quiet figure waiting in the doorway. “Bibbs, will you come down-town with me Monday morning and let me start you with two vice-presidencies, a directorship, stock, and salaries? I ask you.”
“No, father,” said Bibbs, gently.
Sheridan looked at Gurney and then faced his son once more.
“Bibbs, you want to stay in the shop, do you, at nine dollars a week, instead of takin' up my offer?”
“Yes, sir.”