The surgeon saw a short, shriveled,
bow-legged man, inconspicuously dressed save for his black Stetson and
the riding-boots which showed below the bottom of his trousers. The
Spider's black beady eyes burned in his weather-beaten and scarred
face--"the eyes of a hunted man"--thought the surgeon. In a peculiar,
high-pitched voice, he asked Andover if he were the doctor in charge.
"I'm Andover, head-surgeon," said the other. "Won't you sit down?"
The other glanced round. Andover got up and closed the door. "You
wish to see young Annersley, I understand."
"You looking after him?"
Andover nodded.
"Is he hurt pretty bad?"
"Yes. I doubt if he will recover."
"Can I see him?"
"Well,"--and the surgeon hesitated,--"it's after hours. But I don't
suppose it will do any harm. You are a friend of his?"
"About the only one, I reckon."
"Well--I'll step in with you. He may be asleep. If he is--"
"I won't bother him."
The nurse met them, and put her finger to her lips. Andover nodded and
stepped aside as The Spider hobbled to the cot and gazed silently at
Pete's white face.
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