“Let me see, Mrs. Richling,” said the physician, touching her on the shoulder. She drew back. Richling lifted a hand in welcome. The Doctor pressed it.
“Mrs. Richling,” he said, as they faced each other, he on one knee, she on both. He gave her a few laconic directions for the sick man’s better comfort. “You must stay here, madam,” he said at length; “this man Ristofalo will be ample protection for you; and I will go at once and get your husband’s discharge.” He went out.
In the office he asked for a seat at a desk. As he finished using it he turned to the keeper and asked, with severe face:—
“What do you do with sick prisoners here, anyway?”
The keeper smiled.
“Why, if they gits right sick, the hospital wagon comes and takes ’em to the Charity Hospital.”
“Umhum!” replied the Doctor, unpleasantly,—“in the same wagon they use for a case of scarlet fever or small-pox, eh?”
The keeper, with a little resentment in his laugh, stated that he would be eternally lost if he knew.
“I know,” remarked the Doctor. “But when a man is only a little sick,—according to your judgment,—like that one in there now, he is treated here, eh?”
The keeper swelled with a little official pride. His tone was boastful.