"Jim Haggard, hold on!" cried Halliday, following down and out with his weapon pointed earthward. "Let me speak, you drunken fool! Get that boy——"
"Bang!" went the editor's pistol before he had half lifted it.
"Bang!" replied Halliday's.
The editor's weapon dropped. He threw both hands against his breast, looked to heaven, wheeled half round, and fell upon his face as dead as a stone.
Halliday leaped into the saddle, answered one shot that came from the crowd, and clattered away on the turnpike.
John was standing with arms held out. He turned blindly to find the doorway of the stairs and cried, "Father! father!"
"Son!"
He started for the sound, groped against the wall, sank to his knees, and fell backward.
"Room, here, room!" "Give him air!" "By George, sir, he rushed right in bare-handed between 'em, orderin' Haggard"—"Stand back, you-all, and make way for Judge March!"
"Oh, son, son!" The father knelt, caught the limp hands and gazed with streaming eyes. "Oh, son, my son! air you gone fum me, son? Air you gone? Air you gone?"