They spoke of him in the past tense.I was seized and obsessed by the fear that I should never see him again,and at the same moment I realized sharply that this was the one thing I wanted--to see him.I pushed through the people,gained the street,and fairly ran down the alley that led to the side entrance of the hall,where a small group was gathered under the light that hung above the doorway.There stood on the step,a little above the others,a young man in a grey flannel shirt,evidently a mechanic.I addressed him.
"What does the doctor say?"
Before replying he surveyed me with surprise and,I think,with instinctive suspicion of my clothes and bearing.
"What can he say?"he retorted.
"You mean--?"I began.
"I mean Mr.Krebs oughtn't never to have gone into this campaign,"he answered,relenting a trifle,perhaps at the tone of my voice."He knew it,too,and some of us fellows tried to stop him.But we couldn't do nothing with him,"he added dejectedly.
"What is--the trouble?"I asked.
"They tell me it's his heart.He wouldn't talk about it.""When I think of what he done for our union!"exclaimed a thick-set man,plainly a steel worker."He's just wore himself out,fighting that crooked gang."He stared with sudden aggressiveness at me."Haven't Iseen you some-wheres?"he demanded.
A denial was on my lips when the sharp,sinister strokes of a bell were heard coming nearer.
"It's the ambulance,"said the man on the step.
Glancing up the alley beyond the figures of two policemen who had arrived and were holding the people back,I saw the hood of the conveyance as it came to a halt,and immediately a hospital doctor and two assistants carrying a stretcher hurried towards us,and we made way for them to enter.After a brief interval,they were heard coming slowly down the steps inside.By the white,cruel light of the arc I saw Krebs lying motionless....I laid hold of one of the men who had been on the platform.He did not resent the act,he seemed to anticipate my question.
"He's conscious.The doctors expect him to rally when he gets to the hospital."I walked back to the Club to discover that several inquiries had been made about me.Reporters had been there,Republican Headquarters had telephoned to know if I were ill.Leaving word that I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances,I went to my room,and spent most of the night in distracted thought.When at last morning came I breakfasted early,searching the newspapers for accounts of the occurrence at Templar's Hall;and the fact that these were neither conspicuous nor circumstantial was in the nature of a triumph of self-control on the part of editors and reporters.News,however sensational,had severely to be condensed in the interest of a cause,and at this critical stage of the campaign to make a tragic hero of Hermann Krebs would have been the height of folly.There were a couple of paragraphs giving the gist of his speech,and a statement at the end that he had been taken ill and conveyed to the Presbyterian Hospital....
The hospital itself loomed up before me that Sunday morning as Iapproached it along Ballantyne Street,a diluted sunshine washing the extended,businesslike facade of grimy,yellow brick.We were proud of that hospital in the city,and many of our foremost citizens had contributed large sums of money to the building,scarcely ten years old.
It had been one of Maude's interests.I was ushered into the reception room,where presently came the physician in charge,a Dr.Castle,one of those quiet-mannered,modern young medical men who bear on their persons the very stamp of efficiency,of the dignity of a scientific profession.
His greeting implied that he knew all about me,his presence seemed to increase the agitation I tried not to betray,and must have betrayed.
"Can I do anything for you,Mr.Paret?"he asked.
"I have come to inquire about Mr.Krebs,who was brought here last night,I believe."I was aware for an instant of his penetrating,professional glance,the only indication of the surprise he must have felt that Hermann Krebs,of all men,should be the object of my solicitude.
"Why,we sent him home this morning.Nineteen twenty six Fowler Street.
He wanted to go,and there was no use in his staying.""He will recover?"I asked.
The physician shook his head,gazing at me through his glasses.
"He may live a month,Mr.Paret,he may die to-morrow.He ought never to have gone into this campaign,he knew he had this trouble.Hepburn warned him three months ago,and there's no man who knows more about the heart than Hepburn.""Then there's no hope?"I asked.
"Absolutely none.It's a great pity."He added,after a moment,"Mr.
Krebs was a remarkable man."
"Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street?"I repeated.
"Yes."
I held out my hand mechanically,and he pressed it,and went with me to the door.
"Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street,"he repeated...
The mean and sordid aspect of Fowler Street emphasized and seemed to typify my despair,the pungent coal smoke stifled my lungs even as it stifled my spirit.Ugly factories,which were little more than sweatshops,wore an empty,menacing,"Sunday"look,and the faint November sunlight glistened on dirty pavements where children were making a semblance of play.Monotonous rows of red houses succeeded one another,some pushed forward,others thrust back behind little plots of stamped earth.Into one of these I turned.It seemed a little cleaner,better kept,less sordid than the others.I pulled the bell,and presently the door was opened by a woman whose arms were bare to the elbow.She wore a blue-checked calico apron that came to her throat,but the apron was clean,and her firm though furrowed face gave evidences of recent housewifely exertions.Her eyes had the strange look of the cheerfulness that is intimately acquainted with sorrow.She did not seem surprised at seeing me.
"I have come to ask about Mr.Krebs,"I told her.
"Oh,yes,"she said,"there's been so many here this morning already.
