“Why should I? I don’t owe anything to science.”
“Yes, you do. What developed the need of coal—what gave you the facilities for removing it from your mines? Don’t tell me you or anybody else doesn’t owe something to science.”
“Bosh!” And the argument ended there.
The old man had a good night. He dozed as peacefully as if he had not required propping up and occasional hypodermics to keep his lungs and heart going properly, and when the house doctor made his early rounds this sad and shocking spectacle met his eye: the dying coal magnate, arrayed in a fresh and more vivid suit of heliotrope pajamas, smoking a brierwood and keeping a violent emotional pace with the hero in the thrillingest part of the thriller. Even Sheila’s cheeks were tinged with excitement.
“Miss O’Leary!” All the outraged sensibilities of an orthodox, conscientious young house physician were plainly manifested in those two words.
Out shot the brierwood like a projectile, and a giant finger wagged at the intruder. “Look-a-here, young man, the boss and I are running this—er—quitting game to suit ourselves, and we don’t need no suggestions from the walking delegate, or the board of directors, or the gang. See? Now if you can’t say something pleasant and cheerful, get out!”
“Good morning!” It was the best compromise the house physician could make. But ten minutes after his speedy exit Doctor Greer, the specialist, and Miss Maxwell were on the threshold, both looking unmistakably troubled.
The coal magnate winked at Sheila. “Here comes the peace delegates—or maybe it’s from the labor union. Well, sir?” This was shot straight at the doctor.
“Mr. Brandle, you’re mad. I refuse to take any responsibility.”
“Don’t have to. That’s what’s been the matter—too much responsibility. It got on my nerves. Now we want to be as—as noisy and as happy as we can, the boss and me. And if we can’t do it in this little old medicated brick-pile of yours, why, we’ll move. See? Or I’ll buy it with a few tons of my coal and give it to the boss to run.”