Again it was the nurse's ear that caught the words, “My coat—in the pocket—the contract.”
“I'll get it,” she said quickly, and in a moment she had come back into the room, with the coat Bridge had worn when they brought him to the hospital.
Jim took the coat, took a handful of papers out of the pockets and glanced over them. A scrawled and crumpled sheet caught his eye, and straightening it out he read it carefully, holding it close to the dim night lamp. He stood erect again, staring intently at the grotesque shadows on the screen. Grace Burns, who was watching him, saw that for the moment Bridge was forgotten.
But presently his face softened and a smile came into his eyes. Again he went to the bedside and dropped on one knee. He spoke softly, but there was a restrained ring in his voice.
“You've saved us, Bridge; can you understand me? We're going to win out. You were in time.”
He took the thin hand that lay on the coverlet and it clasped his convulsively. He looked curiously at the sick man, and then as the weak grip was not relaxed he sat down on the side of the bed and waited. Five minutes crept away, and another five, and then the slow easy breathing told them that Bridge was asleep.
As the hand let go of his, Weeks rose to go. The nurse followed him to the door, where she said simply:—
“Thank you for coming. It saved his life.”
“Then it was you who saved it,” said Jim. “And you saved me, too. I won't forget it.”