But Galusha had already done it. The dervish dance in his head had culminated in one grand merry-go-round blotting out consciousness altogether, and he had sunk down upon the sofa.
The woman sprang from her chair, bent over him, felt his pulse, and loosened his collar.
“Primmie,” she called. “Primmie, come here this minute, I want you!”
There was the sound of scurrying feet, heavy feet, from the adjoining room, the door opened and a large, raw-boned female, of an age which might have been almost anything within the range of the late teens or early twenties, clumped in. She had a saucer in one hand and a dishcloth in the other.
“Yes'm,” she said, “here I be.” Then, seeing the prone figure upon the sofa, she exclaimed fervently, “Oh, my Lord of Isrul! Who's that?”
“Now don't stand there swearin' and askin' questions, but do as I tell you. You go to the—”
“But—but what AILS him? Is he drunk?”
“Drunk? What put such a notion as that in your head? Of course he isn't drunk.”
“He ain't—he ain't dead?”
“Don't be so silly. He's fainted away, that's all. He's tired out and half sick and half starved, I guess. Here, where are you goin'?”