In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of
eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap
and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small
porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone
in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried
forward.
"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never
seen before.
"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"
"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come
under such circumstances?"
"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.
"The child is as ill as she can be."
"I meant fer--me."
"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone
was dully contemptuous.
"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the
same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."
We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he
saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly
and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you
hear?"
She heard perfectly.
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