He tried to run, but his knees failed him—what about Arthur? He grew chill at the thought—he might be dead by this time.
He reached the doctor's office some way. His head still throbbed and his feet were heavy as lead; but his mind was clear.
A lamp was burning in the office but no one was in. It seemed a month ago since he had been there before. The air of the office was close and stifling, and heavy with stale tobacco smoke. Tom sat down, wearily, in the doctor's armchair; his heart beat painfully—he'll be dead—he'll be dead—he'll be dead—it was pounding. The clock on the table was saying it too. Tom got up and walked up and down to drown the sound. He stopped before a cabinet and gazed horrified at a human skeleton that grinned evilly at him. He opened the door hastily, the night wind fanned his face. He sat down upon the step, thoroughly sober now, but sick in body and soul.
Soon a heavy step sounded on the sidewalk, and the old doctor came into the patch of light that shone from the door.
"Do you want me?" he asked as Tom stood up.
"Yes," Tom answered; "at once."
"What's wrong?" the doctor asked brusquely.
Tom told him as well as he could.
"Were you here before, early in the evening?"
Tom nodded.