“Then please oblige me by keeping the matter quiet, and do the best you can for him at my expense.”
“Surely you don’t mean to keep the fellow here?” exclaimed the doctor, in amazement.
“Certainly. What did you suppose I would do with him?” Earle asked quietly.
“Send him to the alms-house or hospital. It belongs to the authorities to take care of such scamps.”
“If a friend of yours had been injured in this way, would you advocate sending him to the hospital? Would the excitement and fatigue of the removal be beneficial?” Earle asked pointedly.
“No; inflammation would probably follow, and the patient would doubtless die,” the physician coolly admitted.
“That is the way I reasoned the question; therefore I hold myself, in a measure, responsible for this man’s life,” was the grave reply.
“The earth would be well rid of a villain,” answered the doctor, gruffly. “It was only the luck of the thing that prevented your being where he is now, or perhaps a corpse.”
“Not ‘luck,’ my friend, but the hand of Providence,” Earle interposed, with his rare smile. “Your judgment and my conscience tell me that the man will die unless he has the very best of care. He must be kept quiet, and free from anxiety; so I have decided that he shall remain here until he recovers.”
“But who will take care of him?” asked the physician, his gruffness all gone, and a look that was not disapprobation in his eye.