Sam glanced at the clock as he passed out. He had been away an hour and a half.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah! I've got to hurry. She'll take my head off.”
“Of course ye have,” said the maid sharply. “Go down two streets there, then take the first turn to your left and go straight on for half a dozen blocks or so. Mind ye tell the doctor the lad's frae Scotland!” she cried to Sam as he drove off.
At the hospital Sam was fortunate enough to catch Dr. Turnbull in the hall with one or two others, just as they were about to pass into the consulting room. Such was Sam's desperate state of mind that he went straight up to the group.
“I want Dr. Turnbull,” he said.
“There he is before you,” replied a sharp-faced young doctor, pointing to a benevolent looking old gentleman.
“Dr. Turnbull, there's a young feller hurt dreadful out our way. His leg's broke. Guess he's hurt inside too. And he's a stranger. His folks are all in Scotland. Guess he's dyin', and I've got—I've got a horse and buggy at the door. I can git you out and back in a jiffy. Say, doctor, I'm all ready to start.”
A smile passed over the faces of the group. But Dr. Turnbull had too long experience with desperate cases and with desperate men.
“My dear Sir,” he replied, “I cannot go for some hours.”
“Doctor, I want you now. I got to have somebody right now.”