The figure under the sheet, pain-huddled, limb-twisted, turned toward the wall, palm slapping out against it.
"Hell!" said Jastrow, the Granite Jaw.
THE DOCTOR (drawing down his shirt-sleeves): I'll have an ambulance around in twenty minutes.
MISS HOAG: Where for, Doctor?
THE DOCTOR: Brooklyn Public Institute, for the present.
THE LANDLADY (apron up over her head): Poor fellow! Poor handsome fellow!
MISS HOAG: No, Doctor. No! No! No!
THE DOCTOR (rather tiredly): Sorry, madam, but there is no alternative.
MISS HOAG: No, no! I'll pay, Doctor. How much? How much?
THE BARON: Yeh. I'll throw in a tenner myself. Don't throw the poor devil to charity. We'll collect from the troupe. We raised forty dollars for a nigger wild man, once when—