The telephone bell rang at that juncture, and the superintendent answering it told Larry the patient was now in bed and could be seen.
"Don't get him excited," cautioned the official. "I want to get some information from him about himself when you are through."
It is sometimes the custom in New York, in accident cases, to allow reporters to interview the victims, when their physical condition admits of it. So it was no new thing for Larry to go into the hospital ward to speak to Retto. He passed through rows of white cots, on which reclined men in all stages of disease and accident. There was a sickish smell of iodoform in the atmosphere, and the sight of the pale faces on either side made Larry sad at heart.
"There's your patient," said a nurse who was with him, as she led Larry to the bed where
Retto reclined under the white coverings that matched the hue of his face. "Now don't excite him. You newspaper men don't care what you do as long as you get a story, and sometimes all the work we nurses do goes for nothing."
"I'll be careful," promised Larry.
The nurse, who had other duties to keep her busy, left Larry at the bedside of the mysterious man. He was lying with his eyes shut as Larry approached.
"Mr. Retto," called the reporter.
There was no response.
"Mr. Retto," spoke Larry, a little louder.