"What is it? Stop a minute! I'll open the door."
He did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that flooded the oilcloth. The intruder, off whom the water streamed, had to shout to make himself audible.
"It's me—Mat Doyle's me name! It's me wife, doctor; she's dying. I've bin all night on the road. Ah, for the love of—"
"Where is it?" Mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keep his words from flying adrift in the wind.
"Paddy's Rest. You're the third I've bin to. Not one of the dirty dogs'ull stir a leg! Me girl may die like a rabbit for all they care."— The man's voice broke, as he halloed particulars.
"Paddy's Rest? On a night like this? Why, the creek will be out."
"Doctor! you're from th' ould country, I can hear it in your lip. Haven't you a wife, too, doctor? Then show a bit o' mercy to mine!"
"Tut, tut, man, none of that!" said Mahony curtly. "You should have bespoken me at the proper time to attend your wife.—Besides, there'll be no getting along the road to-night."
The other caught the note of yielding. "Sure an' you'd go out, doctor dear, without thinkin', to save your dog if he was drownin'. I've got me buggy down there; I'll take you safe. And you shan't regret it; I'll make it worth your while, by the Lord Harry I will!"
"Pshaw!"—Mahony opened the door of the surgery and struck a match. It was a rough grizzled fellow—a "cocky," on his own showing—who presented himself in the lamplight. His wife had fallen ill that afternoon. At first everything seemed to be going well; then she was seized with fits, had one fit after another, and all but bit her tongue in two. There was nobody with her but a young girl he had fetched from a mile away. He had meant, when her time came, to bring her to the District Hospital. But they had been taken unawares. While he waited he sat with his elbows on his knees, his face between his clenched fists.