Blackie sprang to the top of a stump and swung his hat in the air. “Three cheers for our boss!” he yelled wildly.
A roaring cheer came from the crowd with a right good will.
“Boys, let’s go back to work!” shouted Blackie.
“We’re with you, Blackie!” they answered.
Gillis reached Donald’s side as he tottered into the cabin and caught him in his arms as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The big man picked him up tenderly and placed him on the bed.
“Get some ’ot water and towels and telephone for Dr. Paul,” commanded Andy tersely.
As Gillis left to fill Andy’s commission, Connie fell on her knees by the bedside and wept with wild and passionate violence. “Oh, Donald! Donald!” she sobbed, “you fought for me. I love you! I love you! Oh, Andy,” turning her streaming eyes to the little man, “he won’t die, will he? Tell me he won’t die!” Her trembling fingers were smoothing Donald’s dark hair, and she kissed his battered face tenderly, all the while calling his name hysterically.
With tears in his eyes and a heart full of sympathy, little Andy looked down on the recumbent form of his unconscious friend. “’E’s all right, Connie. ’E’ll be all right in a few days,” he answered her in a choking voice.
Donald stirred as Andy applied the water, and his one good eye opened slowly. “Did I win?” he questioned weakly.
When Donald’s gaze rested on Connie his face twisted into a wry smile. He reached for her hand and held it in a firm pressure. “Good little sport,” he whispered through split lips.
Connie felt as though her heart would burst. Scorching tears ran down her face, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she controlled the suffocating sobs that filled her throat.
The sound of the big mill whistle smote their ears in a wild medley of short, sharp blasts, quite unlike the decorous tone that summoned and dismissed the men.
“What’s that?” asked Donald, attempting to sit up.
“The engineer is celebrating, Donnie. The men ’ave returned to work. The strike is broken.”
“Ah!” sighed Donald happily as he fell back on the pillows.
The distant hum of a gas-car gradually increased to a series of staccato explosions, then died out suddenly. They heard the light rumble of wheels as it drew to a stop at the station below. There was the sound of quick footsteps on the board sidewalk and the door opened to admit Dr. Paul. He crossed the room and took Donald’s hand. “Is it true,” he asked incredulously, “that you whipped Ole Hand?”