“How badly is he hurt, doctor?” asked Frank, anxiously.
“I do not know yet,” was the physician’s candid confession. “He should have come round before this. His skull may be fractured, but I do not think so.”
“If not, why does he remain in this stupor?”
“Perhaps his brain was injured by the shock. It is possible there is a blood clot forming on his brain.”
“If so——”
“We will hope it is not so.”
The manner in which the doctor uttered the words showed that he regarded the case as hopeless, if a clot should form on Bart’s brain. He had spoken plainly so that he might be understood.
“And all this came about through my negligence in letting that rascal alone!” thought Frank, reproachfully. “If I had set the officers after him when he tried to stab me in Belfast, Bart would not be there on that bed, dying, perhaps.”
Frank spent a night of acute torture. He reproached himself constantly.
Several of the wheelmen stayed at Northport, anxious to learn the result of the doctor’s efforts.