As he did so, someone in the room was
telling of that intervention of Gabriel Druse and the Monseigneur at the
Orange funeral, which had saved the situation. At first he listened to
what was said--it was the nurse talking to Jim Beadle with no sharp
perception of the significance of the story; though it slowly pierced the
lethargy of his senses, and he turned over in the bed to face the
watchers.
"What time is it, Jim?" he asked heavily. They told him it was sunset.
"Is it quiet in both towns?" he asked after a pause. They told him that
it was.
"Any telegrams for me?" he asked.
There was an instant's hesitation. They had had no instructions on this
point, and they hardly knew what to say; but Jim's mind had its own
logic, and the truth seemed best to him now. He answered that there were
several wires, but that they "didn't amount to nothin'."
"Have they been opened?" Ingolby asked with a frown, half-raising
himself. It was hard to resign the old masterfulness and self-will.
"I'd like to see anybody open 'em 'thout my pe'mision," answered Jim
imperiously. "When you's asleep, Chief, I'm awake; and I take care of
you' things, same as ever I done. There ain't no wires been opened, and
there ain't goin' to be whiles I'm runnin' the show for you.
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