"Hush! Run and bring that whisky!" her cousin whispered, his face drawn and frightened.
She waited outside while he labored mysteriously, breathing hard.
"Is Mr. Barker sick, Lin?" she whispered fearfully when he came back to the door.
"Y—yes. I guess he's pretty sick," he said slowly, stepping out with her and turning the knob carefully. The dining-room reeked with the whisky on his hands and his coat.
"We'll go for the doctor," he went on, "both of us, because we'll have to fix—I'll have to talk to you on the way. You needn't hurry so, Caroline. There's no—we don't have to hurry." He tried the outside door twice, to make sure it was latched, and glanced hastily at the library windows.
"I'd better wire Uncle Joe," he said half to himself; "he'll know what to do—oh, there's the dog. Come on, Hamlet—he's Buck Williams's—gentle as a kitten."
"Yes, he'll know," she repeated, contentedly, reaching for Hamlet's black muzzle.
"But I don't think that was right, do you,
