The Polack nodded his head excitedly.
"Doctor—Nultee," he ejaculated brightly.
"Yes," said Nulty. "Go on, now—run!" And he gave the Polack an initial start with a vigorous push that nearly toppled the man forward on his nose.
Nulty stooped down, picked up P. Walton in his arms as though the latter were a baby, and started toward his own home a block away.
"My God," he muttered, "a railroad man down there in a state like this—he'd have a long chance, he would! Poor devil, guess he won't last out many more of these. Blast it all, now if the wife was home she'd know what to do—blamed if I know!"
For all that, however, Nulty did pretty well. He put P. Walton to bed, and started feeding him cracked ice even before the doctor came—after that Nulty went on feeding cracked ice.
Along toward midnight, Gleason, the yard-master, burst hurriedly into the house.
"Say, Nulty, you there!" he bawled. "That blasted train robber's got away, and—oh!" He had stepped from the hall over the threshold of the bedroom door, only to halt abruptly as his eyes fell upon the bed. "Anything I can do—Nulty?" he asked in a booming whisper, that he tried to make soft.
Nulty, sitting in a chair by the bed, shook his head—and Gleason tiptoed in squeaky boots out of the house.
P. Walton, who had been lying with closed eyes, opened them, and looked at Nulty.