The sawyer's eyelids drooped again. Without a moment's hesitation Dave plied him with more of the spirit.
"You mean Truscott?" he asked sharply. He was startled, but he gave no sign. He realized that at any time the man might refuse to say more. Then he added: "He's got it in for me."
The sick man remained perfectly still for some seconds. His brain seemed to move slowly. When he did speak, his voice had grown fainter.
"Yes."
Dave's face was hard and cold as he looked down at him. He was just about to formulate another question, when the door opened and Dr. Symons hurried in. He was a brisk man, and took the situation in at a glance.
"A smash?" he inquired. Then, his eyes on the bottle at Dave's side: "What's that—brandy?"
"Brandy." The lumberman passed it across to him. "Yes, a smash-up. This poor chap's badly damaged, I'm afraid. Found him with a heavy beam lying across the small of his back. You were the nearest doctor, so I sent for you. Eh? oh, yes," as the doctor pointed at the blood on his clothes. "When you've finished with him you can put a stitch in me—some of the boys too. I'll leave you to it, Doc, they'll need me in the mill. I gave him brandy, and it roused him to consciousness."
"Right. You might get back in half an hour."
Dr. Symons moved over to the sick man, and Dave put on his coat and left the office.
When he returned the doctor met him with a grave face.