“Don’t worry about that. Take a hot bath, fumigate your clothing, shave your head. I’ll fix you up, and I’ll get some one to take your place.” Catching sight of Swenson and Lize on the bridge, he asked: “Who are those people? Can’t they take your nursing job?”
“No!” answered Cavanagh, bluntly. “It’s no use, I can’t join you in this—at least, not now.”
“But you’ll give me the names which Dunn gave you?”
“No, I can’t do that. I shall tell the Supervisor, and he can act as he sees fit—for the present I’m locked up here.”
The other man looked the disappointment he felt. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like opening up. You know perfectly well that nothing will ever be done about this thing unless the press insists upon it. It’s up to you and me (me representing ‘the conscience of the East’”—here he winked an eye—“and you Federal authority) to do what we can to bring these men to their punishment. Better reconsider. I’m speaking now as a citizen as well as a reporter.”
There was much truth in what he said, but Cavanagh refused to go further in the matter until he had consulted with Redfield.
“Very well,” replied Hartley, “that’s settled. By-the-way, who is your patient?”
Eloquently, concisely, Ross told the story. “Just a poor old mounted hobo, a survival of the cowboy West,” he said; “but he had the heart of a hero in him, and I’m doing my best to save him.”
“Keep him in the dark, that’s the latest theory—or under a red light. White light brings out the ulcers.”
“He hates darkness; that’s one reason why I’ve opened the doors and windows.”