“Well, Ezra, the whipping didn’t come off.”
In spite of himself there was contempt mixed with the kindness in his voice. “But you heard what I said about your leaving the State?”
“Uh,” grunted Ezra. Neither relief nor gratitude could move him to civility.
“That goes; but I’m willing to give you what money you’ll need for a month or two. Fifty dollars ought to see you through; and I’m ready to hand it over when I’ve put you on a train at Pittsfield; but if ever you show your face here again, the boys may do as they please with you.”
He stopped in astonishment; for the mention of the money had evidently wakened no interest and Ezra appeared to be listening not to him but to some sound from within the house. As Archibald leaned forward to see him more closely, he moved hurriedly toward the door.
“Come in here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Archibald stepped into the house and waited while Ezra scratched a match on the wall and lighted a candle. The flickering tongue of flame left most of the room in darkness; but it threw its light upon a man who lay upon the bed—a man in even worse case than Ezra’s when Archibald had first found his way into the squalid little house—a bleared, bloated, dirty, unkempt hulk of a man who lay with closed eyes and breathed in short strangling gasps.
“He’s been like that ever since I found him last night,” Ezra said. “I was going for you anyway in the morning. Seemed as if something had orter be done and I didn’t know what.”
“Why didn’t you call Dr. Fullerton?” Archibald asked wonderingly.
“Well, you know how folks feel about the barn burnings and I didn’t know how Doc’d see his duty; but I thought you—”