It was a brief but all-comprehensive glance. The next instant he had lifted a foot on the step, and with the assistance of the surgeon had deposited the insensible boy on the stretcher inside.
“Drive direct to Fordham,” he commanded. “I will follow immediately.”
Only then did he turn to the bishop.
“I am William T. Blaisdell. You say the boy is your son? You are——?”
His eyes roved over the other’s ministerial dress.
“I am Bishop Chalmers, sir. This young man is my son, my only child,” he repeated, quietly.
“How is it that his name is Nowell? He told me that was his right one?” said the owner, doubtingly.
“It is his own middle name, and his mother’s maiden one,” was the low reply.
“Come with me, bishop,” said Blaisdell, his face softening. “He is a son of whom any father might be proud. Let us hope his injuries are not serious. My automobile is outside here, and we will go direct to the hospital.”
During the swift ride to the hospital, in the wake of the ambulance, Bishop Chalmers, as to a father confessor, unbosomed himself to the quiet, self-contained man beside him. When he had finished the recital, concluding with the remark that he had misjudged his son, and the two men had looked into one another’s eyes, the father saw that Blaisdell’s were filled with tears.