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“When we left the car at Canal Street, my companion whispered to me to follow him, no matter where he went. We kept along close to the houses, past the dives–the streets, even here, were almost deserted; then I saw him drop down a cellarway. I followed, through long passages, up a creaking pair of stairs, along a deserted corridor–only one gas-jet burning–up a second flight of stairs and into an empty room, the door of which he opened with a key which he held in his hand. He waited until I passed in, locked the door behind us, felt his way to a window, the glow of some lights in the tenements opposite giving the only light in the room, and raised the sash. Then down a fire-escape, across a wooden bridge, which was evidently used to connect the two buildings; through an open door, and up another stairs. At the end of this last corridor my companion pushed open a door.

“‘Here’s the “Doc,”‘ I heard him say.

“I looked into a room about as big as this we sit in. It was filled with men, most of them on the floor with their backs to the wall. There was a cot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a cheap kerosene lamp, and one or two chairs. The only other furniture were a flour-barrel and a dry-goods box. On top of the barrel was a tin coffeepot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against the window–there was but one–was tacked a ragged calico quilt, shutting out air and light. Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fell on his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers and undershirt. The shirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him and the floor.

“‘Shot?’ I asked of the man nearest me.

“‘Yes.’

“I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The wound was just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs, and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal.

“The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily built fellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face.

“‘Is that you, “Doc”?’

“‘Yes, where does it hurt?’

“‘”Doc” Shipman–who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?’

“‘Yes–now tell me where the pain is.’

“‘Let me look at you. Yes–that’s him. That’s the “Doc,” boys. Where does it hurt?–Oh, all around here–back worst’–and he passed his hand over his side.

“I looked him over again, put in a few stitches, and fixed him up for the night. When I had finished he said:

“‘Come closer, “Doc”; am I going to die?’

“‘No, not this time; you’ll pull through. Close shave, but you’ll weather it. But you want some air. Here, you fellows’–and I motioned to two men leaning against the quilt tacked over the window–‘rip that off and open that window. He’s got to breathe–too many of you in here, anyway,’

“One of the men moved the lidless dry-goods box against the wall, picked up the kerosene lamp and placed it inside, smothering its light; the other tore the lower end of the quilt from the sash, letting in the fresh, wet night-air.

“I turned to the wounded man again.

“‘You say you’ve seen me before?’

“‘Yes, once. You sewed this up’–and he held up his arm showing a healed scar. ‘You’ve forgot it, but I haven’t.’

“‘Where?’

“‘Bellevue. They took me in there. You treated me white. That’s why my pal hunted you up. Say, Bill’–and he called to my companion with the slouch hat–‘pay the “Doc.”‘

“Half a dozen men dove instantly into their pockets, but my companion already had his roll of bills in his hand. He bent over so that the glow of the half-smothered lamp could fall upon his hand, unrolled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me.

“I passed it back to him. ‘I don’t want this. Five dollars is my fee. If you haven’t anything smaller, wait till I come to-morrow, then you can give me a ten. I’m ready to go now; lead the way out.’