"Can't go down this way," he said.
"It's Mr. Dorn. We're taking him home. He was hurt," explained Colman.
"Fire lines. Street's closed," said the policeman gruffly.
Selma thrust her head out. "We must get him home——"
"House across the street burning—and probably his house, too," cut in the policeman. "He's been raising hell—he has. But it's coming home to him at last. Take him to the hospital."
"Jane," cried Selma, "make this man pass us!"
Jane faced the policeman, explained who she was. He became humbly civil at once. "I've just told her, ma'am," said he, "that his house is burning. The mob's gutting the New Day office and setting fire to everything."
"My house is in the next street," said Colman. "Drive there. Some of you people get Dr. Charlton—and everything. Get busy. Whip up, driver. Here, give me the lines!"
Thus, within five minutes, Victor was lying upon a couch in the parlor of Colman's cottage, and within ten minutes Dr. Charlton was beside him and was at work. Selma and Jane and Mrs. Colman were in the room. The others—a steadily increasing crowd—were on the steps outside, in the front yard, were filling the narrow street. Colman had organized fifty Leaguers into a guard, to be ready for any emergencies. Over the tops of the low houses could be seen the vast cloud of smoke from the fire; the air was heavy with the odors of burning wood; faintly came sounds of engines, of jubilant drunken shouts.
"A fracture of the skull and of the jaw-bone. Not necessarily serious," was Dr. Charlton's verdict.