"And you refuse to do this last thing poor Ted asked of you?" Dan said to her.
"I have no proof that he asked it," she answered.
And with that insult ringing in his ears, Dan went.
He pulled the door to upon him with a muttered oath on his lips; but he was not so enraged as another man would have been in his place. The "old girl" wasn't behaving well; but in Dan's experience, so many people did not behave well; and as it happened, the thing could be put right. If it had been yesterday, how helpless he would have been in the emergency! But old Playford's death had come just in the nick of time. As for himself and his chance—his last chance—well! He looked across at that other door behind which Ted lay. Ted and he had stuck together through ill report and good, had helped each other out of many a scrape, had had such good times!
Dan looked for a moment at the closed door, then stepped across the yard of matting and opened it.
Many a time he had run in without waiting for admission to his friend's lodgings, had pushed open the door to call a word to the young doctor, already gone to bed or not yet got up, perhaps. So, once more he opened the door far enough to admit his red head, and looked in. Ted was dead, he knew; but it takes time to reconcile us to the fact that the dead are also deaf, senseless, past grieving or comfort.
"It's all right, old man; don't you worry. I'll see to it," Dan said.
CARES OF A CURATE
"November 6th, 1901.