I rolled over on my side with the sickening certainty that the next instant the hoofs and the wheels would be upon me, but the horse pulled up on his haunches at my very feet, the rattle and clanging ceased, and a doctor in his shirt sleeves appeared as if by magic.
It was an ambulance, of course.
I fainted when they lifted me, and only came to myself in the hospital—Mary's hospital, and her ward. Every one in Chicago was crowded that week and the next, but—the ruling principle strong in death—I declined to be put away out of eyeshot and earshot into a private room.
"D'ye want me to send word to Mis' Gemmell to come?" asked Mary, and I replied drowsily:
"No, don't. She's better to keep out of harm's way. She would be sure to sympathize with the strikers."
"But she'll wonder where you are."
"She can't get here safely, as things are now, and the mails are all upset. Don't write. Send a telegram in my name. Date it Chicago, and tell her I'm detained, but that I'll go home Monday, sure."
That same night I was off in a high fever. It was days and days before I came to myself, and then I was too weak to ask or to care how everything was going on at home. My whole interest in life was concentrated upon that hospital ward, and with half-closed eyes I lay there and took notes unconsciously.
An ideal life it may seem to outsiders, but there is as much wire-pulling, as much jealousy and scandal within the walls of one of those big institutions, as anywhere else on this planet. It is an epitome of the world battle, and the strugglers meet in hand-to-hand conflict.
Nurse Dean, the head of our ward, tall and angular in form, stern and cold in feature, was the dragon Belle had told me about, but she knew her business, and I, for one, preferred that she should regard me simply as a machine laid up for repairs. I did not even think her unduly severe upon Mary, after I heard her giving that damsel "Hail Columbia" for her carelessness in having administered the wrong medicine one whole forenoon to Number Nine—which was myself.