“Oh, heavens!” cried his mother. “He’s poisoned! Drive for the doctor, Ezra! Drive!”
Mr. Bronson forgot all about the election—forgot everything save antidotes and speed. He leaped toward the door. As he passed out, he shouted “Give him an emetic!” He tore the hitching straps from the posts, jumped into the buggy and headed for the road. Skilfully avoiding an overturn as he rounded into the highway, he gave the spirited horses their heads, and fled toward town, carefully computing the speed the horses could make and still be able to return. Mile after mile he covered, passing teams, keeping ahead of automobiles and advertising panic. Just at the town limits, he met the doctor in Sheriff Dilly’s automobile, the sheriff himself at the steering wheel. Mr. Bronson signaled them to stop, ignoring the fact that they were making similar signs to him.
“We’re just starting for your place,” said the doctor. “Your wife got me on the phone.”
“Thank God!” replied Bronson. “Don’t fool any time away on me. Drive!”
“Get in here, Ez,” said the sheriff. “Doc knows how to drive, and I’ll come on with your team. They need a slow drive to cool ’em off.”
“Why didn’t you phone me?” asked the doctor.
“Never thought of it,” replied Bronson. “I hain’t had the phone only a few years. Drive faster!”
“I want to get there, or I would,” answered the doctor. “Don’t worry. From what your wife told me over the phone I don’t believe the boy’s eaten any more strychnine than I have—and probably not so much.”
“He was alive, then?”
“Alive and making an argument against taking the emetic,” replied the doctor. “But I guess she got it down him.”