“I don’t know,” he gasped. “But it’s finished me! I know it—it’s the last straw.”
Then he closed his eyes and lay back. “Can’t you get a doctor?” he asked.
“There are no houses very near,” said Montague. “But I can run—”
“No, no!” the other interrupted, anxiously. “Don’t leave me! Some one will come.—Oh, that fool of a chauffeur—why couldn’t he go slow when I told him? That’s always the way with them—they’re always trying to show off.”
“The man is dead,” said Montague, quietly.
The other started upon his elbow. “Dead!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Montague. “He’s under the car.”
The old man’s eyes had started wild with fright; and he caught Montague by the arm. “Dead!” he said. “O my God—and it might have been me!”
There was a moment’s pause. The stranger caught his breath, and whispered again: “I’m done for! I can’t stand it! it’s too much!”
Montague had noticed when he lifted the man that he was very frail and slight of build. Now he could feel that the hand that held his arm was trembling violently. It occurred to him that perhaps the man was not really hurt, but that his nerves had been upset by the shock.