"Here, the flask! Don't speak yet," said a man's voice, and a
choking stimulant was poured into his mouth. When the choking spasm
it cost him was over, his eyes cleared, and he could at least gasp.
Then he saw that it was his housemate, Evelyn, at whom he was
clutching, and who asked again in amaze—-
"What is up, old fellow?"
"Hush, not yet," said the other voice; "let him alone till he gets
his breath. Don't hurry, my boy," he added, "we will wait."
Johnny, however, felt altogether absorbed in getting out one panting
whisper, "A doctor."
"Yes, yes, he is," cried Evelyn. "What's the matter? Not Brownlow!"
"Both-—oh," sobbed John in the agony of contending with the bumping,
fluttering heart which _would_ not let him fetch breath enough to
speak.
"You will tell us presently. Don't be afraid. We will wait," said
the voice of the man who, as John now felt, was supporting him.
"Hush, Cecil, another minute, and he will be able to tell us."
Indeed the rushing of every pulse was again making it vain for Johnny
to try to utter anything, and he shut his eyes in the realisation
that he had succeeded and found help. If his heart would have not
bumped and fluttered so fearfully, it would have been almost rest, as
he was helped up by those kind, strong arms.
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