IN THE HOSPITAL.
As he doubled the nearest corner, like a hare with the hounds close upon
it, Jack uttered a wild shout for help. He hoped that somebody might
hear it.
But there was no result from his appeal for aid. Were there no policemen
in New York?
The street he had blindly doubled into was lined on each side by tall,
dark, silent warehouses. The blank walls echoed back the sound of his
flying feet and the heavy footfalls of those in pursuit.
Jack realized, with a thrill of dismay, that they were gaining on him.
He heard the heavy exhalation and intake of the runners’ breaths.
Suddenly one of his pursuers whipped out a revolver and fired.
The audacity of the deed sent Jack’s heart racing faster than before. A
man who would dare to fire a revolver on a New York street, dark and
deserted though it was, would hardly stick at any act of violence.
“If I can’t throw them off, it’s all up with me,” thought the boy.
Bang!
Another report echoed back from the shadowy walls on either side. This
time the bullet came close, but it was only a random shot, for at the
pace they were running nobody could take careful aim.
The effect of the closely singing bullet was to make Jack lose his nerve
utterly. Blindly he plunged forward, not hearing the distant screaming
of police whistles and the thunder of nightsticks as they were rapped on
the pavements.
The sound of the revolver shots had aroused the police at last. From
every direction they came running; but Jack, in a perfect frenzy of
fear, knew nothing of all this. He did see, though, that he was coming
into a better lighted quarter. A few stores and residences blossomed
with lights, and help lay ahead if he could only make it in time.
Behind him he could hear only one set of footfalls now. Two of his
pursuers had dropped out of the chase. The boy put forth a supreme
effort, but in the very act he met with disaster. He had been running
with his head down, and suddenly, just as he gave a last desperate
sprint to gain the lighted quarter, he collided, crashingly, with an
iron lamp-post. The boy went down as if he had been struck with a club.
Fire blazed before his eyes; his senses swam, and then all became black.
It was just at this moment that a big black auto came whirling through
the street. In the tonneau sat a stout, prosperous-looking man who, as
he saw the sudden accident, started up and ordered his chauffeur to
stop. Master and man got out and went over to the recumbent figure, and,
as they did so, a hulking form glided off in the shadowy region toward
the waterfront.
“The kid’s broke his head without botherin’ me to do it for him,” the
man muttered as he slunk off.
“Now then, Marshall,” said the prosperous-looking man, “give me a hand
to pick this boy up. Lucky for him that we were coming this way home
from Staten Island or he might have lain here all night.”
They stooped over the lad and picked him up. As they did so, the light
of a street lamp fell on the pale face. The owner of the car gave a
sudden sharp exclamation:
“Gracious goodness! It’s young Ready! How in the world did he come
here?”
“He’s got a precious bad crack on his head, sir, and by the looks of him
won’t be able to answer that question for some time to come. My advice,
Mr. Jukes, is to take him to the hospital.”
“You are right, Marshall. I’m afraid the poor lad has a bad injury. Help
me put him in the tonneau and then make a quick run for the nearest
hospital.”
By a strange fate it was Mr. Jukes’ car that had approached Jack as he
fell senseless to the street. The shipping magnate was returning home,
as he had said, from a dinner party on Staten Island. Finding the
streets by the South Ferry torn up, he had ordered his chauffeur to
proceed along West Street and then cut through the village to Fifth
Avenue. Thus it came about that his employer it was who had picked up
poor Jack.
Straight to the Greenwich Hospital drove the chauffeur, and in less than
half an hour Jack lay tucked in a private bed, with orders that he was
to be given every care; and Mr. Jukes was speeding uptown, wondering
greatly how the young wireless operator happened to be in that part of
the city at that hour of the night.
The next morning Jack awakened in his bed at the hospital with the
impression that a boiler shop had taken up a temporary abode in his
head. For a few minutes he thought he was in his bunk on the _Ajax_,
then he shifted to the _Venus_ and at last, as he blinkingly regarded
the ceiling, memory came rushing back in a full flood.
The dark, deserted streets, the rough, brutal men, the mad run for life,
and then a sudden crash and darkness. What had happened? Had they struck
him down? Jack put his hand to his throbbing head. It was bandaged. So
they _had_ struck him. But he was uninjured otherwise seemingly, so
something must have happened to stop the savage fury of the firemen
before they had time to wreck their full vengeance on his defenseless
body.
He turned his head and saw a young woman smilingly regarding him. She
wore a blue dress and a neat white apron and cap.
“A nurse,” thought Jack, and then aloud, “is this the hospital?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “but you must not talk till the doctor has seen
you.”
“But what has happened? How did I come here?” persisted Jack.
“If you will promise not to ask any more questions till after the doctor
has been here, I will tell you.”
“Very well. I’ll promise.”
“You were brought here in Mr. Jukes’ automobile.”
Jack tried to sit up in bed. What sort of a wild dream was this? His
last recollection was of a dark street, revolver shots and a stunning
blow, and now, suddenly, Mr. Jukes, his employer, was brought into the
matter.
“Mr. Jukes!” he exclaimed. “Why, how——”
“Hush! Remember your promise.”
Jack, perforce, lay back to wait, with what patience he could, the visit
of the doctor, after which he hoped he might be allowed to talk. It was
all too perplexing. Then, too, he recollected, with a pang of dismay,
that the _Ajax_ sailed the next day. What if she sailed without him? He
would lose his berth. The lad fairly ground his teeth.
“Just one question, ma’am,” he begged; “when can I get out of here?”
“Not for two or three days, at any rate,” was the reply.
Poor Jack groaned aloud and buried his face in his hands.
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