“Naw—­she’s not, sur.”  Mr. Flanagan made another feint with the boot and lamp at the stairs, but stopped again in curious bewilderment, and rubbed his head.  Then, with another inspiration, and speaking with such velocity that his words ran into each other, pell-mell, he continued:  “Th’ small girl’s sick sur.  Begorra, I wor just pullin’ on th’ boots tuh gaw for the docther, in th’ nixt streth, an’ summons him to her relehf, fur it’s bad she is.  A’id betther be goan.”  Another start, and a movement to put on the boot instantly, baffled by his getting the lamp into the leg of it, and involving himself in difficulties in trying to get it out again without dropping either, and stopped finally by Dr. Renton.

“You needn’t go, Mr. Flanagan.  I’ll see to the child.  Don’t go.”

He stepped slowly up the stairs, followed by the bewildered Flanagan.  All this time Dr. Renton was listening to the racket from the bar-room.  Clinking of glasses, rattling of dishes, trampling of feet, oaths and laughter, and a confused din of coarse voices, mingling with boisterous calls for oysters and drink, came, hardly deadened by the partition walls, from the haunt below, and echoed through the corridors.  Loud enough within,—­louder in the street without, where the oysters and drink were reeling and roaring off to brutal dreams.  People trying to sleep here; a sick child up stairs.  Listen! “Two stew! One roast! Four ale!  Hurry ’em up! Three stew! In number six! One fancy—­two roast! One sling!  Three brandy—­hot! Two stew! One whisk’ skin!  Hurry ’em up! What yeh ’bout! Three brand’ punch—­hot! Four stew! What-ye-e-h ’BOUT! Two gin-cock-t’il! One stew!  Hu-r-r-y ’em up!” Clashing, rattling, cursing, swearing, laughing, shouting, trampling, stumbling, driving, slamming of doors.  “Hu-r-ry ’em UP.”

“Flanagan,” said Dr. Renton, stopping at the first landing, “do you have this noise every night?”

“Naise?  Hoo!  Divil a night, docther, but I’m wehked out ov me bed wid ‘em, Sundays an’ all.  Sure didn’t they murdher wan of ’em, out an’ out, last night!”

“Is the man dead?”

“Dead?  Troth he is.  An’ cowld.”

“H’m”—­through his compressed lips.  “Flanagan, you needn’t come up.  I know the door.  Just hold the light for me here.  There, that’ll do.  Thank you.”  He whispered the last words from the top of the second flight.

“Are ye there, docther?” Flanagan anxious to the last, and trying to peer up at him with the lamplight in his eyes.