“At twelve. What do you want?”
“How far is it?”
“About fifteen miles,” he replied.
“Good. I can get back by eight o’clock to-night.”
“Easily,” said Stagers, “if you go. What do you want?”
“I want a smaller tube to put in the windpipe—must have it, in fact.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said he, “but the thing’s got to go through somehow. If you must go, I will go along myself. Can’t lose sight of you, doc, just at present. You’re monstrous precious. Did you tell File?”
“Yes,” said I; “he’s all right. Come. We’ve no time to lose.”
Nor had we. Within twenty minutes we were seated in the last car of a long train, and running at the rate of twenty miles an hour toward Dayton. In about ten minutes I asked Stagers for a cigar.
“Can’t smoke here,” said he.