“Yes, I know them spells.”
“Jim,” said the surgeon suddenly, “I'm going to be very busy to-morrow, and if you've got any message to send to anybody or anything to say to me, you'd better say it before I go.” He spoke carelessly, but with a little too much care.
The sheet moved over the hands clasped across Jim's breast. “Why, doc, you don't mean to say—” He stopped and drew in one breath slowly.
“Oh, no, but you can't always tell, and I might not get back till late, and I thought you might have something to tell me about—” He paused helplessly, and the man on the cot began moving his lips. The surgeon bent low.
“Why, doc,” he said very slowly, “you—don't—really—mean—to—say—that the old—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “has finished me this time?”
“Who finished you, Jim—who'd you say finished you?”
A curious smile flitted over the coarse lips and passed. Then the lips tightened and the thought behind the bandage made its way to the surgeon's quick brain, and there was a long silence.
At last:
“Doc, d'you ever hear tell of a woman bein' hung?”
“Yes, Jim.”