While breaking hearts watched by Mr. Brann's bedside there was a loving wife, a dutiful son and kind friends sitting by the bedside of Tom E. Davis. For the first six hours Dr. J. C. J. King, Dr. Curtis and Dr. Olive endeavored to bring their patient about. He was perfectly conscious, but was yet suffering from the shock. At midnight he was no better and a change for the worse was soon noted. The patient would awake from the effect of opiates, talk with those about him and then relapse again into slumber. He knew his son and wife, friends who called and friends who spoke to him, but there was rapid pulse and a labored breathing that indicated the approach of death. Throughout the small hours of the new-born day the wife sat by that couch, and with her sat kind friends. Everything known to science was done to save the life that fleeting breath told was fast ebbing away. There was not a continued loss of blood, but with a perforated frame, the creature of nature could not exist, and it was evident he was fast nearing the end. The dawn of early morning found the faithful watchers yet at the bedside, and the rising sun peeped into the room and shed a glow about the sick room, appearing to light the way for the soul which was soon to wing its flight to realms beyond. The circle about the couch enlarged, children of the wounded man gathering about their weeping mother, his sister and other relatives coming to watch and wait. During the early hours of the morning and until the forenoon was advanced, friends paced the lobby of the Pacific hoping every moment for a report that the patient was better. Each minute passed as an hour, and the hours seemed as long drawn out days. Each report from the sick room was "no change."