"He's fainted," said Garwood, fumbling at the throat of the colonel's shirt. Malachi Nolan brought a cup of water, Mosely hunted impatiently for a flask of whisky, and when they had straightened him out upon his pillows, Carroll ran for the hotel physician. The colonel recovered consciousness before the physician came and glanced around with an expression of embarrassment.
"Damn such a heart, anyway," he said. Then young Doctor Lambert came with his new stethoscope. When the doctor had finished his auscultation, the colonel said:
"Malachi, vote your delegation solid every time—don't give complimentary votes—it's dangerous. And remember—I don't care what happens so long as Carroll's nominated, trade anything, everything for that, and send me word—"
But they hushed him.
At noon Doctor Foerder, the specialist, arrived.
"Ah, Lambert," he said, scowling about him as he put down his tremendous leather valise, big with the mysterious contrivances of modern surgery, pulled off his gloves, and with his quick, professional tread, stepped to the bedside. He exposed
