Читать книгу Hands Up! онлайн

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"That'll do, you," said the Doc to Apache as I entered, and Apache rose as I set the pail down. I felt better now, though I knew my face was cold. Apache said: "He's all right now, Doc?"

"He's all right," said the Doc, and fell to sponging and cleaning his hands in the bucket, staring at Douglas the while.

Apache looked at me and said: "Hullo, you look white."

"Queer," I muttered, "I felt sick at first."

"Yes," he said, "Even a man who can hold off a gang of Dagoes may feel sick when he comes suddenly up against this side of life." He stretched erect and said: "The only way to keep some sides of life from not making you sick is to get right in and do something. He's all right, Doc?"

The Doc looked up and took stock of Apache, evidently more carefully.

"All right sir," he said. "We'll get him down to Lone Tree Hospital when the train comes in."

"Then I'll get off to my appointment. So-long Doc. So-long Scot! So-long Kid!" He trotted out. "Hullo!" I heard him say outside. "Feeling bad? Yes I know. Yes—it does make you feel mean, doesn't it? Well, when a man's built that way there's no mere looking on possible for him—he must either step right in and be of use, or step right out—go get him to a nunnery, so to speak. But there's nothing to be ashamed about, sir. Ninety-nine out of a hundred can rubber-neck over the heads of a crowd at a dog in a fit in the gutter and neither go away nor help. That's humanity. You can get sick, sir, when you aren't helping anyhow. So-long! So-long boys! Where's my bronco? Oh, there he is. Hi! Hi! White-face!"