Back she tore to the hospital, and up the steps, just as the doctor came down into the hall.
“Emergency case?” he asked playfully, as Clytie rolled at his feet. “What’s the matter with the cat, Michael?”
“Looks as if she wanted you to follow her,” said Michael, watching her curiously. “If it was a dog now, I’d say that’s what was wanted.”
“Well, let’s try,” said the doctor; and as he started for the door, Clytie bounded on ahead of him, with the most imploring mews.
“Give us the lantern, Michael,” said the young man, and he followed Clytie across the lawn, to the place where Torn-nose lay.
“Gunshot wound, eh?” he said, bending over his patient. “Lend a hand here, Michael!” And Torn-nose was carried tenderly into the hall, where his wound was dressed as carefully as if he had been a person, and he was put to bed in the night-watchman’s room.
The day after this, Clytie had a little red cross sewed on one side of her collar, and was known ever afterwards as the “First Aid Cat.” Torn-nose recovered, and when Dr. Haskell left the hospital, went with him to be his office cat.
“How did you happen to get shot?” Clytie asked him, the day that he was first able to sit up and take nourishment.
“No reason, whatever. I was merely removing a broiled chicken from a kitchen-table, and as I had left another one for the family, they had no cause to complain.”
“You will never need to steal chickens any more after this,” Clytie said. “Dr. Haskell is a kind man, and will always be your friend.”