A lamp was burning in the office but no one was in. It
seemed a month ago since he had been there before. The
air of the office was close and stifling, and heavy with
stale tobacco smoke. Tom sat down, wearily, in the doctor's
armchair; his heart beat painfully--he'll be dead--he'll
be dead--he'll be dead--it was pounding. The clock on
the table was saying it too. Tom got up and walked up
and down to drown the sound. He stopped before a cabinet
and gazed horrified at a human skeleton that grinned
evilly at him. He opened the door hastily, the night wind
fanned his face. He sat down upon the step, thoroughly
sober now, but sick in body and soul.
Soon a heavy step sounded on the sidewalk, and the old
doctor came into the patch of light that shone from the
door.
"Do you want me?" he asked as Tom stood up.
"Yes," Tom answered; "at once."
"What's wrong?" the doctor asked brusquely.
Tom told him as well as he could.
"Were you here before, early in the evening?"
Tom nodded.
"Hurry up then and get your horse," the doctor said,
going past him into the office.
"Yes, I thought so," the doctor said gathering up his
instruments. "I ought to know the signs--well, well, the
poor young Englishman has had plenty of time to die from
ten in the evening till four the next morning, without
indecent haste either, while this young fellow was hitting
up the firewater. Still, God knows, I shouldn't be hard
on him.
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