in bed."

"Naw--she's not, sur." Mr. Flanagan made another feint with the boot and
lamp at the stairs, but stopped again in curious bewilderment, and
rubbed his head. Then, with another inspiration, and speaking with such
velocity that his words ran into each other, pell-mell, he continued:
"Th' small girl's sick, sur. Begorra, I wor just pullin' on th' boots
tuh gaw for the docther, in th' nixt streth, an' summons him to her
relehf, for it's bad she is. A'id betther be goan." Another start, and a
movement to put on the boot instantly, baffled by his getting the lamp
into the leg of it, and involving himself in difficulties in trying to
get it out again without dropping either, and stopped finally by Dr.
Renton.

"You needn't go, Mr. Flanagan. I'll see to the child. Don't go."

He stepped slowly up the stairs, followed by the bewildered Flanagan.
All this time Dr. Renton was listening to the racket from the bar-room.
Clinking of glasses, rattling of dishes, trampling of feet, oaths and
laughter, and a confused din of coarse voices, mingling with boisterous
calls for oysters and drink, came, hardly deadened by the partition
walls, from the haunt below, and echoed through the corridors. Loud
enough within--louder in the street without, where the oysters and drink
were reeling and roaring off to brutal dreams. People trying to sleep
here; a sick child up stairs. Listen! "_Two_ stew! _One_ roast! _Four_
ale! Hurry 'em up! _Three_ stew! _In_ number six! _One_ fancy--_two_
roast! _One_ sling! Three brandy--_hot_! _Two_ stew! _One_ whisk'
_skin_! Hurry 'em up! _What_ yeh _'bout_! _Three_ brand' punch--_hot_!
_Four_ stew! _What_-ye-e-h 'BOUT! _Two_ gin-cock-t'il! _One_ stew!
Hu-r-r-y 'em up!" Clashing, rattling, cursing, swearing, laughing,
shouting, trampling, stumbling, driving, slamming, of doors. "Hu-r-ry
'em UP."

"Flanagan," said Dr. Renton, stopping at the first landing, "do you have
this noise every night?"

"Naise? Hoo! Divil a night, docther, but I'm wehked out ov me bed wid
'em, Sundays an' all. Sure didn't they murdher wan of 'em, out an' out,
last night!"

"Is the man dead?"

"Dead? Troth he is. An' cowld."

"H'm"--through his compressed lips. "Flanagan, you needn't come up. I
know the door. Just hold the light for me here. There, that'll do. Thank
you." He whispered the last words from the top of the second flight.

"Are ye there, docther?" Flanagan anxious to the last, and trying to
peer up at him wi