"Do you want a stretcher?"
The rapidity with which he asked these questions, and his eager manner,
quite startled her, and she was for a moment unable to tell her errand.
"Speak up, girl--speak up! Do you want a stretcher--is it burnt or run
over. Can't you speak, eh?"
It now flashed upon Lizzie that the venerable janitor was labouring under
the impression that she had come to make application for the admission of a
patient, and she quickly answered--
"Oh, no; it is nothing of the kind, I am glad to say."
"Glad to say," muttered the old man, the eager, expectant look disappearing
from his face, giving place to one of disappointment--"glad to say; why
there hasn't been an accident to-day, and here you've gone and rung the
bell, and brought me here to the door for nothing. What do you want then?"
"I wish to inquire after a person who is here."
"What's his number?" gruffly inquired he.
"That I cannot tell," answered she; "his name is McCloskey."
"I don't know anything about him. Couldn't tell who he is unless I go all
over the books to-night. We don't know people by their names here; come in
the morning--ten o'clock, and don't never ring that bell again," concluded
he, sharply, "unless you want a stretcher: ringing the bell, and no
accident;" and grumbling at being disturbed for nothing, he abruptly closed
the door in Lizzie's face.
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