“Well, I dunno; I think it wuz some un”—
Dempsey looked at him and knit his brow. McGaw stopped.
“Don't you know enough of a horse to know he couldn't kick with blind staggers?” insisted the Scotchman.
McGaw did not answer.
“Does anybody know any of the facts connected with this dreadful accident to Mrs. Grogan?” asked the president. “Have you heard anything, Mr. Quigg?”
Mr. Quigg had heard absolutely nothing, and had not seen Mrs. Grogan for months. Mr. Crimmins was equally ignorant, and so were several other gentlemen. Here a voice came from the back of the room.
“I met Dr. Mason, sir, an hour ago, after he had attended Tom Grogan. He was on his way to Quarantine in his buggy. He said he left her insensible after dressin' the wound. He thought she might not live till mornin'.”
“May I ask your name, sir?” asked the president in a courteous tone.
“Peter Lathers. I am yardmaster at the U. S. Lighthouse Depot.”
The title, and the calm way in which Lathers spoke, convinced the president and the room. Everybody realized that Tom's life hung by a thread. The Scotchman still had a lingering doubt. He also wished to clear up the blind-staggers theory.