“It's all right,” he said. “How's she seem?”
Rhoda Gray shook her head.
A passer-by stopped, asked what was the matter—and lingered curiously. Another, and another, did the same. A little crowd collected. The officer kept them back. Came then the strident clang of a gong and the rapid beat of horses' hoofs. A white-coated figure jumped from the ambulance, pushed his way forward, and bent over the form in Rhoda Gray's lap. A moment more, and they were carrying Gypsy Nan to the ambulance.
Rhoda Gray spoke to the officer:
“I think perhaps I had better go with her.”
“Sure!” said the officer.
She caught snatches of the officer's words, as he made a report to the doctor:
“Found her here in the street...Charlotte Green...nothing else...the White Moll, straight as God makes 'em...she'll see the woman through.” He turned to Rhoda Gray. “You can get in there with them, miss.”
It took possibly ten minutes to reach the hospital, but, before that time, Gypsy Nan, responding in a measure to stimulants, had regained consciousness. She insisted on clinging to Rhoda Gray's hand as they carried in the stretcher.
“Don't leave me!” she pleaded. And then, for the first time, Gypsy Nan's nerve seemed to fail her. “I—oh, my God—I—I don't want to die!” she cried out.
But a moment later, inside the hospital, as the admitting officer began to ask questions of Rhoda Gray, Gypsy Nan had apparently recovered her grip upon herself.
“Ah, let her alone!” she broke in. “She doesn't know me any more than you do. She found me on the street. But she was good to me, God bless her!”
“Your name's Charlotte Green? Yes?” The man nodded. “Where do you live?”
“Wherever I like!” Gypsy Nan was snarling truculently now. “What's it matter where I live? Don't you ever have any one come here without a letter from the pastor of her church!” She pulled out the package of banknotes. “You aren't going to get stuck. This'll
Prev.
Back
Top