"The worst injury is evidently to the right arm and shoulder; you'll have
to help me get his shirt off. No--not that way!"
Dan's hands, so eager to serve, so awkward in the service, fumbled over
their task, eliciting a groan from the unconscious man.
"Let me do it!" cried Nance, springing forward. "You hold him up, Dan, I
can get it off."
"It's a nasty job," warned the doctor, with a mistrustful glance at the
youthful, tear-stained face. "It may make you sick."
"What if it does?" demanded Nance, impatiently.
It was a long and distressing proceeding, and Dan tried not to look at
her as she bent in absorbed detachment over her work. But her steady
finger-touch, and her anticipation of the doctor's needs amazed him. It
recalled the day at the factory, when she, little more than a child
herself, had dressed the wounds of the carrying-in boy. Once she grew
suddenly white and had to hurry to the door and let the wind blow in her
face. He started up to follow her, but changed his mind. Instead he
protested with unnecessary vehemence against her resuming the work, but
she would not heed him.
"That's right!" said the doctor, approvingly. "Stick it out this time and
next time it will not make you sick. Our next move is to get him home.
Where does he live?"
"In Calvary Alley," said Dan, "back of the cathedral."
"Very good," said the doctor, "I'll run him around there in my machine as
soon as that last hypodermic takes effect. Any family?"
Dan shook his head.
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