When the priest had finished his ministrations, he went up to the Daly flat. After his knock at the door, he heard quick movements inside and then a rather long silence. He rapped again. This time the door was opened and Mrs. Daly met him. The reason for the delay was evident. She had been crying and did not care to exhibit herself to a neighbor. But on seeing Father Boone she broke out afresh, at the same time showing him a telegram she had just received from the hospital. It read: "William Daly dangerously ill. You will be admitted any hour." It was signed by the superintendent.
Father Boone put two and two together, "Typhoid." He made up his mind at once just what to do. "You stay here until I send a cab for you; then come along." He himself hurried downstairs, walked quickly over to the trolley and in ten minutes was at the hospital. Not until he got there did he go to the phone and call up a taxi for Mrs. Daly. He had a good start now, and could pave the way for her.
Going immediately to the ward, he found the nurse at Daly's bedside. "Rather sudden," he remarked.
"Very," she replied.
"There were no signs last night, nurse, as far as I could see. What seems to be the matter?"
"Typhoid."
All this was in a whisper.
He continued, "I'll just see how he is and say a few words to him before his mother comes."
"He is delirious, Father."
"Maybe he'll know me," he said, and bent over the patient. He took his hand gently, saying, "Willie boy, you have not said 'hello' to me yet." No answer. "You know Father Boone, don't you, Willie?"