"Gee, you're good!" said the physician. "The way you talked to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here before you ask God to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow. Good-bye."
He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he turned to his father and said: "Pa, Gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter Fagin's and if he ain't dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in."
"How's the old man, Jimmie?" asked Fagin as the boy entered the saloon.
"Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell him Pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go.
"Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to your father."
He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a scrap of old newspaper. "This is about all the poor devil lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'."
"Is dat booze?" asked Jimmie.
"It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand," said Fagin.
"Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business," replied the boy, starting for the door.
"Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger.