My next idea was to go for a doctor, but I reflected that I ought to first bind up the other wound, and this I did, leaving him in the chair, with his chest and head lying over on the bed, looking so white that a chill of horror shot through me, for I fancied that he was dying.
I knew there was a doctor’s two streets off, and I ran to where the red bull’s-eye in the lamp shone out like a danger signal; rang the night-bell; heard a window above me open, and, after explaining my business and what was the matter, the medical man promised to come.
I ran back to find that Revitts had not moved, but that my attempts to bandage his wounds had proved to be ineffectual. I did what more I could, though, and then sat horror-stricken and silent, holding the poor fellow’s hand, speaking to him at intervals, but eliciting nothing but a moan.
It seemed as if the doctor would never come, and I was about to rouse up some of the people in the house when I heard the bell, and ran to admit him.
He looked curiously at me as I stood there, candle in hand, and as I closed the door he said gruffly:
“A drunken fall, I suppose?”
“Oh no, sir,” I said hastily. “Mr Revitts never drinks.”
“Humph?” he ejaculated; and I led him up to where Revitts sat.
“Policeman, eh?” said the doctor; “this is a job for the surgeon to the division, my man. Mustn’t leave him to bleed to death, though.”
He slipped off his coat, and, exerting his strength, lifted poor Revitts on to the bed, after which he removed my bandages and made an examination.