“I want to be good to you; I want to help you if I can,” he said simply.
But he was afraid of Nan in tears, and there were tears in the eyes with which she now regarded him. She turned away, slipping her handkerchief from her sleeve. This would never do. He waited a moment, then began talking, as though nothing had happened, of old times on the river, of steamboat men and their ways, in the hope of restoring her tranquillity.
“I guess I had my share of fun down there; if I could be a kid again I’d want to be born right down there on the old Ohio. I remember once—”
A muffled crash in the room above sent her flying into the hall and upstairs.
“Papa!” she called, standing in the doorway of Farley’s room and fumbling for the electric button.
As the ceiling lights flooded the room she called loudly to Jerry.
Farley lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. The crash that had accompanied his collapse had been due to the overturning of the electric table lamp, at which he had caught as he felt himself falling.
Jerry was already on his knees beside the prone figure.
Nan snatched the receiver of the telephone from its bracket and called the regular physician; and then, remembering another doctor who lived just around the corner, she summoned him also. Amidon lifted Farley and placed him on the bed. While waiting for her numbers she told him where to find a restorative the doctor had provided for emergencies, and before she finished telephoning he had tried vainly to force a spoonful of the liquid between Farley’s lips.
“It’s no use,” said Jerry, placing his hand over the stricken man’s heart.