"Pete?"
"Room 218," said the nurse.
"Oh, you mean young Annersley. Well, I don't know."
"He's my boy," said The Spider, using the last desperate argument—an appeal difficult to ignore.
"Take him to 218," said the doctor, gesturing toward the stretcher.
The nurse, who went with them, roused Pete out of a quiet sleep and told him that they were bringing some one to see him. "Your father," she said, "who has been seriously injured. He asked to see you."
Pete could not at first understand what she meant. "All right," he said, turning his head and gazing toward the doorway. The nurse stepped into the hall and nodded to the attendants and the doctor.
They were about to move forward when The Spider gestured feebly to the doctor. "Get me to my feet." "I won't bother you much after that." And The Spider, who felt that his strength was going fast, tried to raise himself on the stretcher. This effort brought the internes to his side. They lifted him to his feet and shuffled awkwardly through the doorway.
Swaying between the internes, his shriveled body held upright by a desperate effort of will, he fought for breath.
Pete raised on his elbow, his dark eyes wide. "Spider!" he exclaimed.