"
"I'll--tell him, Black," stammered Norberg, and
turned away.
They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them
that did not owe him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not
one that had not the memory of some secret kindness
stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had
furnished the money that had sent Deming's sick wife
west. It had been Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time
and again when drink got a strangle-hold. Blackie had
always said: "Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why, Schmidt
writes better stuff drunk than all the rest of the
bunch sober." And Schmidt would be granted another
reprieve by the Powers that Were.
Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway.
She came swiftly and bent over him.
"Gimme two minutes more, that's a good nursie.
There's something I want to say t' this dame. It's de
rigger t' hand out last messages, ain't it?"
The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. "But you're not
to excite yourself."
"Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain't goin' t' be no scene from
East Lynne. Be a good kid. The rest of the bunch can
go."
And so, when the others had gone, I found myself
seated at the side of his bed, trying to smile down at
him. I knew that there must be nothing to excite him.
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