"Sally--Nancy--Nancy," he whispered, and his
fingers clutched vaguely at the quilt.
"He must have brandy or he will die. The system is pumped out. He must
be revived," said the doctor. He reached again for the glass of spirits.
Jim understood now. He was on the borderland between life and death; his
feet were at the brink. "No--not--brandy, no!" he moaned. "Sally-
Sally, kiss me," he said faintly, from the middle world in which he was.
"Quick, the broth!" said Sewell to the factor, who had been preparing
it. "Quick, while there's a chance." He stooped and called into Jim's
ear: "For the love of God, wake up, sir. They're coming--they're both
coming--Nancy's coming. They'll soon be here." What matter that he
lied, a life was at stake.
Jim's eyes opened again. The doctor was standing with the brandy in
his hand. Half madly Jim reached out. "I must live until they come,"
he cried; "the brandy--give it me! Give it--ah, no, no, I must not!"
he added, gasping, his lips trembling, his hands shaking.
Sewell held the broth to his lips.
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