Peter called persistently, and as he commanded more breath, he called louder and louder, “Hello, Doctor! Hello, Doctor! Hello, Doctor!” in tones edging on panic.
The doctor's house might have been dead. Somewhere a dog began barking. High in the Southern sky a star looked down remotely on Peter's frantic haste. The black man stood in the black night with cries: “Hello, Doctor! Hello, Doctor! Hello, Doctor!”
At last, in despair, he tried to think of other doctors. He thought of telephoning to Jonesboro. Just as he decided he must turn away there came a stirring in the dead house, a flicker of light appeared on the inside now here, now there; it steadied into a tiny beam and approached the door. The door opened, and Dr. Jallup's head and breast appeared, illuminated against the black interior.
“My mother's sick, Doctor,” began Peter, in immense relief.
“Who is it?” inquired the half-clad man, impassively.
“Caroline Siner; she's been taken with a—”
The physician lifted his light a trifle in an effort to see Peter.
“Lemme see: she's that fat nigger woman that lives in a three-roomed house—”
“I'll show you the way,” said Peter. “She's very ill.”
The half-dressed man shook his head.
