Miss Etta lit
a smudgy lamp, sniffling as she did so.
From under the torn quilt the man stared back at me, with much of his
old penetration, despite the fever that racked him.
"I--want--Lisbeth," were his first words to me.
I shook my head. "She cannot come just now," I told him, hand on his
wrist. "But we are here to do everything for you."
"Tel-e-phone her," he said with his old emphasis on each syllable, "and
tell--her that I'm--dy-ing. Don't answer me. You know that--_I--am
dy-ing and I--want--her_."
Miss Etta, the tears streaming over her large face, went to do his
bidding. I could hear her lumbersome footsteps going down the crazy
outside stairway. He gave me a triumphant look as I lifted his arm, then
abruptly he drew away from me. He had an ingrained fear of drugs of any
sort. There was no gainsaying his fierce refusals, so I made him as
comfortable as I could while we waited. The end was very near. His face,
thin almost to emaciation, was flushed to a deep, feverish red, but his
lips took on a more unbending line than ever and his eyes burned like
bits of phosphorescence in the semidarkness. For an hour he lay there
motionless with only the shadow of a smile touching his lips at
intervals.
Miss Etta had returned, letting in a gust of damp air, but bringing no
definite answer from Lisbeth.
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