Trench laughed. He heard the swirl of the rain against the window-panes; it was nearly as bad as the day he had sheltered Diana. He looked keenly at the worn little old man and saw the streams of water that had streaked his coat. “I have a great mind to shut you up and keep you all night,� he remarked.
“For a ransom?� said the doctor grimly; “you wouldn’t get it. Caleb, that poor girl, Jean Bartlett, is dying.�
Trench was startled. “I didn’t know she was ill,� he replied; “Zeb came here and whined for money when the grandmother died so suddenly, but he said nothing of Jean.�
“He never does,� said Dr. Cheyney, “the young brute!�
“Are you going there now?� Caleb asked.
“Yep,� replied the doctor briefly; “I wanted more brandy, for I’m like to catch my death, but I must be about,—she’s dying. She may pull through until morning. Pneumonia—a cold that last bad storm. She lay out in the field half the night. She’s done it a hundred times when they harried her; this time it’s killed her. She’s not twenty.�
Caleb reached for his hat. “I’m going with you,� he said simply.
Dr. Cheyney threw him one of his shrewd looks. “Afraid to trust me alone in the wet?� he asked dryly.
Caleb smiled. “To tell you the truth I was thinking of Sammy. The poor little dirty beggar appeals to me, he’s thoroughly boy, in spite of his curious clothes, and Zeb is a drunken brute.�
The doctor grunted and went out, making room for Caleb at his side in the buggy. “I’m going to send Sammy to St. Vincent’s,� he said.