"Where did you come
from?" He put his hand on the wrist; it was very hot and dry; the
pulse was racing, irregular; at seconds it seemed to stop; for other
seconds it was continuous. The fellow coughed and bent forward. "What
is it--pneumonia?" Alan tried to straighten him up.

"Gi' me drink! ... Go get Ben Corvet, I tell you! ... Get Ben Corvet
quick! Say--yous shear? You get me Ben Corvet; you better get Ben
Corvet; you tell him Lu--uke's here; won't wait any more; goin' t'have
my money now ... sright away, your shear? Kick me out s'loon; I guess
not no more. Ben Corvet give me all money I want or I talk!"

"Talk!"

"Syou know it! I ain't goin'...." He choked up and tottered back;
Alan, supporting him, laid him down and stayed beside him until his
coughing and choking ceased, and there was only the rattling rasp of
his breathing. When Alan spoke to him again, Luke's eyes opened, and
he narrated recent experiences bitterly; all were blamed to Ben
Corvet's absence; Luke, who had been drinking heavily a few nights
before, had been thrown out when the saloon was closed; that was Ben
Corvet's fault; if Ben Corvet had been around, Luke would have had
money, all the money any one wanted; no one would have thrown out Luke
then. Luke slept in the snow, all wet. When he arose, the saloon was
open again, and he got more whiskey, but not enough to get him warm.
He hadn't been warm since. That was Ben Corvet's fault. Ben Corvet
better be 'round now; Luke wouldn't stand any more.

Alan felt of the pulse again; he opened the coat and under-flannels and
felt the heaving chest. He went to the hall and looked in the
telephone directory. He remembered the name of the druggist on the
corner of Clark Street and he telephoned him, giving the number on
Astor Street.

"I want a doctor right away," he said. "Any good doctor; the one that
you can get quickest." The druggist promised that a physician would be
there within a quarter of an hour. Alan went back to Luke, who was
silent now except for the gasp of his breath; he did not answer when
Alan spoke to him, except to ask for whiskey. Alan, gazing down at
him, felt that the man was dying; liquor and his fever had sustained
him only to bring him to the door; now the collapse had come; the
doctor, even if he arrived very soon, could do no more than perhaps
delay the end. Alan went up-stairs and brought down blankets and put
them over Luke; he cut the knotted laces