Randy ran all the way to the drug store, two squares distant. Its proprietor stared rather wonderingly at the breathless, excited boy who dashed into the place precipitately.
“Mister, will you call the nearest doctor, quick!” panted Randy.
“Urgent case?” questioned the druggist.
“Yes, sir, very much so,” declared Randy. “It’s right on this street—No. 217.”
“Mrs. Dean’s? I know the place,” nodded the druggist. “You had better wait till I see who I can get,” and the speaker hurried to the telegraph booth.
Randy was on pins and needles of suspense. He knew that Professor Barrington would never forgive himself if anything happened to his faithful agent through any real or seeming neglect. The druggist had to make several calls on the telephone before he found a doctor at home.
“I’ve caught Dr. Rolfe at home,” he advised Randy as he came out of the booth. “He says he’ll come at once. His office is a mile away, though, and it will probably be fully fifteen minutes before he shows up.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Randy, gratefully. “I must hurry back,” and he bolted out.
He was dreadfully stirred up and anxious as he ran up the steps of the house he had recently left. The stairway was dark and shadowy. Someone coming down them half-way up jostled violently against Randy. The latter supposed it was some roomer in the place. Then, as he reached the upper hall, he almost bolted into the landlady. She had just come up the rear stairs from the kitchen, it appeared, and she carried a basin of steaming hot water in her hands.
“Oh, it’s you?” she hailed. “I was just bringing the doctor some boiling water he ordered. You got him here very quick; didn’t you?”