“I'll take that responsibility,” replied the doctor. “In he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now.”
Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.
“Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick about it.”
Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. “It must be warm, eh? Want a bath in it next, I suppose.”
“This will do,” said the doctor when they reached the room. “Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty.” Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed between heated blankets. “Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back.”
He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two hot-water bottles.
“We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full of hot water for me.”
“What is it, Doctor?” cried Shorty anxiously.
“Go quick!” The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work.
“Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way.” Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second injection. “There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here within an hour.” Shorty turned to go. “Wait. Do you know this man's name?”