"No. A horseman," I replied.
"He talks about trains. Was it a railroad accident?"
"He was injured by a horse called The Big Train," I explained.
"Oh—that one," he said, enlightened.
"Why don't they shoot him?"
"They did," I said.
"Good!" exclaimed the surgeon. "That is fine!"
After taking the girl to her home, I sent telegrams to "Mr. Van," as I had heard Blister call him—one to Morrisville, New Jersey, and one to the Union Club, New York. Judge and Mrs. Dillon were abroad.
When I had telephoned to the hospital the next morning, I went to the office and found a message on my desk. It read:
"Have everything possible done. Send all bills to me. He must come here to convalesce."