“Well, if I’ve got to wait,” said the man suddenly, in a sharp, professional manner, “might as well tell you what to do. He’s had a good dose of it, that’s certain. Lay him flat on his back and work the stuff out of his lungs. Raise up the arms and press down on the diaphragm regularly and slowly. Open up the skylight and get some cold air in here. He’ll come around in no time.”
“Oh, a doctor!” said O’Leary.
“Perhaps.”
Under these directions, Dangerfield began to gasp and mutter, and finally, as they waited, opened his eyes and glared out of them with his characteristic stare of a frightened animal. Presently he rose to a sitting position, clutching the arm of Inga, who was supporting him, his glance set directly on the man with the cropped mustache, who faced him with a confident, indifferent smile.
“Who’s that?” he cried, almost in terror, and the grip on her arm sunk painfully into her flesh.
“It’s I, Dan—Jim Fortier,” said the prisoner, with a sudden rough authority in his voice, as though he were indeed the master of the scene.
Whether the fumes of the chloroform had not yet left his faculties free, or whether he did not perceive the true position of Fortier, to their amazement Dangerfield seemed suddenly shaken with an unreasoning fear. He cried out: “Doctor Jim! Doctor Jim!” and covered his face with his hands.
Inga took him hurriedly in her arms, crying:
“Mr. Dangerfield, nothing’s happened—you’re here. It’s Inga—O’Leary’s here—we’re all here!”