It seemed as though the air
had been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speak
nor breathe. He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him.
Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question. A dim
blur of faces--an endless journey along a street and up a narrow
stairway--and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkled
with impossible blue roses. Owen was giving him whiskey--a sip at a
time.
"How do you feel now?" queried the sheriff.
"I'm all right. Somethin' caught me quick--out there."
"Your lungs have been working overtime. Too much fresh air all at
once. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"I reckon you won't have to set up and watch the front door," said
Pete, smiling faintly.
"Or the back door. You're in the Sanborn House--room 11, second floor,
and there's only one other floor and that's downstairs. If you want
any thing--just pound on the floor. They'll understand."
"About payin' for my board--"
"That's all right. I got your money--and your other stuff that I might
need for evidence. Take it easy.
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