“Here you, Bill!” he called, “run for some water. And you, Henry, telephone for a doctor, and get a cab. Who the dickens are these fellows, anyway?”
Ben began to stammer an answer, but before any intelligible words had left his mouth the superintendent interrupted him.
“Oh, I know!” he exclaimed. “You’re Mr. Barriscale’s son, and this is Captain McCormack’s boy. I had the letter. Here, Bill, give me the water.”
He poured a little from the glass into his hand and dashed it into Hal’s face, and repeated the process twice. Then he began chafing the boy’s wrists. Some one suggested that the victim be carried to a bench or chair.
“No,” replied McCrae. “Let him lie here. He’s better off on his back till the doctor comes. Some one lend me a jacket, though, to put under his head.”
In a second Ben had stripped off his coat and handed it to the superintendent, who folded it and placed it gently under Hal’s head.
The workmen, awed by the tragic result of the fight, began melting away, discussing as they went the possible cause of the quarrel and its probable results. At last, with the exception of one or two foremen and the superintendent, all the men were gone, and Ben stood, almost alone, by the side of his victim. He was stunned and awe-stricken. He had not dreamed that such a thing could happen.
“I didn’t mean to knock him out,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have hurt him like this for the world. What shall I do about it, Mr. McCrae?”
“Oh,” was the reply, “just stick around here till the doctor comes, and he’ll tell us all what to do. It’s no’ very bad, I guess. He’s breathin’ all right now.”
The doctor was not long in coming. His office was but two blocks away, and the messenger who had been sent for him had made great haste. He examined the boy carefully, but found nothing wrong except that an area on the back of his head was already swollen and showed a marked abrasion. There was no fracture, however.