He thought she
might not live till mornin'."
"May I ask your name, sir?" asked the president in a courteous
tone.
"Peter Lathers. I am yardmaster at the U. S. Lighthouse Depot."
The title, and the calm way in which Lathers spoke, convinced the
president and the room. Everybody realized that Tom's life hung
by a thread. The Scotchman still had a lingering doubt. He also
wished to clear up the blind-staggers theory.
"Did he say how she was hurt?" asked the Scotchman.
"Yes. He said he was a-drivin' by when they picked her up, and he
was dead sure that somebody had hid in the stable and knocked her
on the head with a club."
McGaw steadied himself with his hand and grasped the seat of his
chair. The sweat was rolling from his face. He seemed afraid to
look up, lest some other eye might catch his own and read his
thoughts. If he had only seen Lathers come in!
Lathers's announcement, coupled with the Scotchman's well-known
knowledge of equine diseases discrediting the blind-staggers
theory, produced a profound sensation. Heads were put together,
and low whispers were heard. Dempsey, Quigg, and Crimmins did not
move a muscle.
The Scotchman again broke the silence.
"There seems to be no question, gentlemen, that the poor woman is
badly hurt; but she is still alive, and while she breathes we have
no right to take this work from her.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156