Was this joy--or a cold coming on? I shifted uneasily on the hospital
bed and scratched at an itch on my left hip. Ouch! It was a pimple. My
head ached. My throat hurt. I itched. Julia was dead. The police were
coming. I was alone. What should I do?
"Nurse!" I shouted at the top of my voice. "Nurse, come here. I want to
send a wire. Rush. Urgent. To my aunt, Mrs. Helga Barth, the address is
in my wallet. Say, 'Helga. Am desperately ill, repeat, ill. Please come
at once. I must have help--from you.'"
She'll come. I know she will. They've _got_ to let her. It was an
accident, I swear, and I'm not too old. I'm still in wonderful shape,
beautifully kept up.
But I feel awful.
Well--how do you suppose New England would feel today, if suddenly all
of its inhabitants died?
--WILLIAM W. STUART