"I'll go up, Mr. Flanagan," returned Dr. Renton, stepping in, after
a pause, and shutting the door. "But I'm afraid she's in bed."
"Naw--she's not, sur." Mr. Flanagan made another feint with the boot
and lamp at the stairs, but stopped again in curious bewilderment, and
rubbed his head. Then, with another inspiration, and speaking with such
velocity that his words ran into each other, pell-mell, he continued:
"Th' small girl's sick sur. Begorra, I wor just pullin' on th' boots
tuh gaw for the docther, in th' nixt streth, an' summons him to her
relehf, fur it's bad she is. A'id betther be goan." Another start, and
a movement to put on the boot instantly, baffled by his getting the
lamp into the leg of it, and involving himself in difficulties in trying
to get it out again without dropping either, and stopped finally by
Dr. Renton.
"You needn't go, Mr. Flanagan. I'll see to the child. Don't go."
He stepped slowly up the stairs, followed by the bewildered Flanagan.
All this time Dr. Renton was listening to the racket from the bar-room.
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