“Yes, don’t lick him,” said The O’Mahony. “He’s had about the worst bat on the head I ever saw a a man git an’ live, to start with. No—be decent with him, an’ give him enough to eat. Might let him have a moderate amount o’ drink, too.”
“I suppose there’ll be a great talk about his vanishin’ out o’ sight all at wance among the Brotherhood,” suggested Jerry.
“That don’t matter a darn,” said the other. “Jest you go ahead, an’ tend to your own knittin’, an’ let the Brotherhood whistle. We’ve paid a good stiff price to learn what Fenianism is worth, and we’ve learned enough. Not any more on my plate, thankee! Jest give the boys the word that the jig is up—that there won’t be any more drillin’ or meanderin’ round generally. And speakin’ o’ drink—”
A noise from the curtained bed in the alcove interrupted The O’Mahony’s remarks upon this important subject. Turning, the two men saw that Linsky had risen on the couch to a half-sitting posture, and, with a tremulous hand, drawing aside the felt-like draperies, was staring wildly at them out of blood-shot eyes.
“For the love of God, what is it?” he asked, in a faint and moaning voice.
“Lay down there!—quick!” called out The O’Mahony, sternly; and Linsky fell back prone without a protest.
The O’Mahony had finished melting his gum, and he spread it now salve-like upon a cloth. Then he walked over to where the wounded man lay, with marvel-stricken eyes wandering over the archaic vaulted ceiling.
“Is it dead I am?” he groaned, with a vacuous glance at the new-comer.
“No, you’ve been badly hurt in battle,” said the other, in curt tones. “We can pull you through, perhaps; but you’ve got to shut up an’ lay still. Hold your head this way a little more—that’s it.”
The injured man submitted to the operation, for the most part, with apparently closed eyes, but his next remark showed that he had been gathering his wits together.