This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of Doctor Davenport, and her position was no sinecure.
Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve the proper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, at the end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physically exhausted.
Though supposed to be off duty at six o’clock, her relief was frequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in an appearance, though it was half past the hour.
Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep her tired voice pleasant and amiable.
“No,” she would answer the anxious speakers, “Doctor Davenport is not in.” “Yes, I expect him soon.” “Can you leave a message?” “Yes, I will tell him.” “He will surely be in by seven.” “No, he left no message for you.” “No, I don’t know exactly where he is.” “Yes, I will let you know.”
Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to their furthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangled again she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.
“Hello,” she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.
But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard a faint voice say, “Come, Doctor—oh, come quick—I’m—I’m done for—shot——”
There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn’t catch them.
“Who are you?” she cried, alert now. “Who is speaking?”