“I’d hate to lose that boy, Doc!”
“I don’t believe there’s any danger. It doesn’t sound like a genuine poisoning case to me.”
Thus reassured, Mr. Bronson was calm, even if somewhat tragic in calmness, when he entered the death chamber with the doctor. Newton was sitting up, his eyes wet, and his face pale. His mother had won the argument, and Newton had lost his dinner. Haakon Peterson occupied an armchair.
“What’s all this?” asked the doctor. “How you feeling, Newt? Any pain?”
“I’m all right,” said Newton. “Don’t give me any more o’ that nasty stuff!”
“No,” said the doctor, “but if you don’t tell me just what you’ve been eating, and doing, and pulling off on us, I’ll use this”—and the doctor exhibited a huge stomach pump.
“What’ll you do with that?” asked Newton faintly.
“I’ll put this down into your hold, and unload you, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Is the election over, Mr. Peterson?” asked Newton.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Peterson, “and the votes counted.”