It was durin' the next ten minutes, when the young student was cuttin' off the blue jersey and the ridin' pants, and pokin' and feelin' around, that Mr. Twombley-Crane gets the facts of the story. He didn't have much to say; but, knowin' what I did, and seein' how he looked, I could easy frame up what was on his mind. He gives orders that whatever was wanted should be handed out, and he was standin' by holdin' the brandy flask himself when them washed out blue eyes of Rusty's flickers open for the first time. "I--I forgot my--mouth organ," says Rusty. "I wouldn't of come back--but for that." It wa'n't much more'n a whisper, and it was a shaky one at that. So was Mr. Twombley-Crane's voice kind of shaky when he tells him he thanks the Lord he did come back. And then Rusty goes off in another faint. Next a real doc. shows up, and he chases us all out while him and the student has a confab. In five minutes or so we gets the verdict. The doc. says Rusty is damaged pretty bad. Things have happened to his ribs and spine which ought to have ended him on the spot. As it is, he may hold out another hour, though in the shape he's in he don't see how he can. But if he could hold out that long the doc. knows of an A-1 sawbones who could mend him up if anyone could. "Then telephone for him at once, and do your best meanwhile," says Mr. Twombley-Crane. By that time everyone on the place knows about Rusty and his stunt. The front rooms was full of people standin' around whisperin' soft to each other and lookin' solemn,--swell, high toned folks, that half an hour before hardly knew such specimens as Rusty existed. But when the word is passed around that probably he's all in, they takes it just as hard as if he was one of their own kind. When it comes to takin' the long jump, we're all pretty much on the same grade, ain't we? I begun to see where I hadn't any business sizin' up Rusty like I had, and was workin' up a heavy feelin' in my chest, when the doc. comes out and asks if there's such a party as Shorty McCabe present. I knew what was comin'. Rusty has got his eyes open again and is callin' for me. I finds him half propped up with pillows on a shiny mahogany table, his face all screwed up from the hurt inside, and the freckles showin' up on his dead white skin like peach stains on a table cloth. "They say I'm all to the bad, Shorty," says he, tryin' to spring that grin of his. "Aw, cut it out!" says I. "You tell 'em they got another guess. You're too tough and rugged to go under so easy." "Think so?" says he, real eager, his eyes lightin' up. "Sure thing!" says I. Say, I put all the ginger and cheerfulness I could fake up into that lie. And it seems to do him a heap of good. When I asks him if there's anything he wants, he makes another crack at his grin, and says: "A paper pipe would taste good about now." "Let him have it," says the doc. So the student digs out his cigarette case, and we helps Rusty light up.