Rogaum did not kneel for more than a moment. Somehow, this creature’s fate seemed in some psychic way identified with that of his own daughter. He bounded up, and jumping out his front door, began to call lustily for the police. Officer Maguire, at his social game nearby, heard the very first cry and came running.
“What’s the matter here, now?” he exclaimed, rushing up full and ready for murder, robbery, fire, or, indeed, anything in the whole roster of human calamities.
“A vooman!” said Rogaum excitedly. “She haf herself umgebracht. She iss dying. Ach, Gott! in my own doorstep, yet!”
“Vere iss der hospital?” put in Mrs. Rogaum, thinking clearly of an ambulance, but not being able to express it. “She iss gekilt, sure. Oh! Oh!” and bending over her the poor old motherly soul stroked the tightened hands, and trickled tears upon the blue shirtwaist. “Ach, vy did you do dot?” she said. “Ach, for vy?”
Officer Maguire was essentially a man of action. He jumped to the sidewalk, amid the gathering company, and beat loudly with his club upon the stone flagging. Then he ran to the nearest police phone, returning to aid in any other way he might. A milk wagon passing on its way from the Jersey ferry with a few tons of fresh milk aboard, he held it up and demanded a helping.
“Give us a quart there, will you?” he said authoritatively. “A woman’s swallowed acid in here.”
“Sure,” said the driver, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement. “Got a glass, anybody?”
Maguire ran back and returned, bearing a measure. Mrs. Rogaum stood looking nervously on, while the stocky officer raised the golden head and poured the milk.
“Here, now, drink this,” he said. “Come on. Try an’ swallow it.”
The girl, a blonde of the type the world too well knows, opened her eyes, and looked, groaning a little.