“Yessir!”
“Harold Barton. I had to make sure. I’m in a terrible mess, son. I need your help! If I take time to come over to the hospital ... it’ll be too late!”
With his left little finger Cub gave the interior of his ear a violent shake and transferred the receiver. He moistened his lips, but Dr. Barton forestalled his words:
“Don’t interrupt me, Cub! Time is valuable! My brother, the Attorney-General, is slated to be elected senator next fall. The cards are stacked. Today the Governor gave a political barbecue at his camp. Half an hour ago, while returning, Herb had an automobile accident ... out on Lincoln Highway. No, he wasn’t hurt. Much too drunk for that! But the girl was. A newspaper reporter. What? Couldn’t tell you. Never saw her.
“Another car of newspaper people came by. They had an A. P. man along. Of course Herb could ‘hush’ it locally, but the A. P. man refused to kill the story nationally unless Herb promised to get the lady into the Elijah Wilson and foot all bills.
“She’s in an ambulance now. On the way. Internal injuries. No, you miss the point! The man insists her reputation as well as her ... organs ... must be intact. Will you take her under an assumed name ... in case she dies? Say her father is a friend of yours, and you recognized her. Anything! If that won’t do, think up another one. Awfully unethical, I know! But I can’t stand behind any more relatives ... right now...!”
The last sentence contained a note Cub had never heard in Barton’s speech. A helplessness....
Outside in Becker Street an ambulance screamed up the long hill. Cub’s cigarette was adding another hole to the already scarred floor of the booth.
He said, and his voice had its steel under which he buried real emotion:
“Certainly, Doctor Barton, I’ll take her in. But everything is occupied except a dying patient room off Ward B. Will the Attorney-General pay for frills? Private nurses ... so on?”