"No," He snapped his bag open with businesslike briskness. "Concussion. Got a glancing blow from the light fixture. Seems as if she'd been trying to wrap herself up in the bedclothes and got in the worst place she could--just under it." "Can you do anything for her?" "Not much. Rest and quiet is what she ought to have, and I don't see how she's going to get it the way things are now." "We got a cart. We can take her along with us." "Good work. I'll fix her up as well as I can and turn her over to you." He had taken scissors from his bag and with deft speed began to cut away the tangled hair from the torn flesh. "I'll put in a stitch or two and bind her up. Looks like a person of means." He gave a side glance at her hand, white and beringed. "You might get off the mattress while I'm doing this. We can put her on it and carry her down. She's a big woman; must be five feet nine or ten." Garland dragged the mattress to the floor, while the doctor rose and made a dive for the bathroom. He emerged from it a moment later, his brow corrugated. "No water!" he said, as he stepped over the strewn floor to his patient. "That's a cheerful complication." He bent over her, engrossed in his task, every now and then, as the building quivered to the earth throes, stopping to mutter in irritated impatience. Garland went to the window and called down to Pancha and Mrs. Meeker that they'd found a woman, alive but unconscious, and space must be left for her in the cart. He stood for a moment watching them as they pulled out the up-piled household goods with which Mrs. Meeker had been filling it. Then the doctor, snapping his bag shut and jumping to his feet, called him back: "That's done. It's all I can do for her now. Come on--lend a hand. Take her shoulders; she's a good solid weight." Her head was covered with bandages close and tight as a nun's coif. They framed a face hardly less white and set in a stony insensibility. "Lord, she looks like a dead one," Garland said, as he lowered the wounded head on the mattress. "She's not that, but she may be unless she gets somewhere out of this. Easy now; these quakes keep getting in the way." They carried her down the stairs and out into the street. Here the crowd, already moving before the fire, was thick, a dense mass, plowing forward through an atmosphere heat-dried and cinder-choked. The voices of police and soldiers rose above the multiple sounds of that tide of egress urging it on. A way was made for the men with their grim load, eyes touching it sympathetically, now and then a comment: "Dead is she, poor thing?" But mostly they were too bewildered or too swamped in their own tragedy to notice any other.