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Updated: May 7, 2025
Orton's face fell, but he said nothing. He bit his lip nervously and looked out of the sun-parlour at the roofs of New York around him. "What has happened since last night to increase your anxiety, Jack?" asked Craig sympathetically. Orton wheeled his chair about slowly, faced us, and drew a letter from his pocket. Laying it flat on the table he covered the lower part with the envelope.
We pulled up at the construction works, and a strapping Irishman met us. "Is this Professor Kennedy?" he asked of Craig. "It is. Where is Mr. Orton's office?" "I'm afraid, sir, it will be a long time before Mr. Orton is in his office again, sir.
The best cure for the bends is to go back under the air recompression they call it. The renewed pressure causes the gas in the blood to contract again, and thus it is eliminated sometimes. At any rate, it is the best- known cure and considerably reduces the pain in the worst cases. When you have a bad case like Orton's it means that the damage is done; the gas has ruptured some veins.
From the moment the tunnels were started, here was preserved a faithful record of every slightest variation of air pressure. "Telephone down into the tube and have Capps come up," said Craig at length, glancing at Orton's desk clock. "Taylor will be here pretty soon, and I want Capps to be out of the tunnel by the time he comes. Then get Shelton, too."
He was there already, despite the orders of his physician, who was disgusted at this excursion from the hospital. Kennedy was there, too, grim and silent. We sat watching the two indicators beside Orton's desk, which showed the air pressure in the two tubes. The needles were vibrating ever so little and tracing a red-ink line on the ruled paper that unwound from the drum.
In less than an hour he returned with a young man whom he presented as the important witness for whom he had been in search. "Your name is Adolf Klein?" said Nick. The witness nodded. He was a bashful, awkward fellow, who did not seem to be possessed of the average intelligence. "Where do you work?" was the next question. "I'm a bartender in Orton's saloon, up on the avenue."
When I told Hamage of my experience of the night before with the talking clock in my room, he laughed uproariously. "I am very glad you mentioned this just now," he said, when he had quieted himself. "We have a couple of hours before the train goes out to my place, and I 'll take you through Orton's establishment, where they make a specialty of these talking clocks.
These words they received as a Bath-col: and the next horseman from the Euphrates brought word accordingly that Rabbi Samuel had been gathered to his fathers at some station on the Euphrates. Here is the very same case, the same Bath-col substantially, which we have cited from Orton's Life of Doddridge.
When, at last, the door at our end of the lock swung open, the men with a cheer seized Paddy and, in spite of his struggles, hoisted him on to their shoulders, and carried him off, still struggling, in triumph up the construction elevator to the open air above. The scene in Orton's office was dramatic as the men entered with Paddy.
In response to Orton's summons Capps and Shelton came into the office, just as a large town car pulled up outside the tunnel works. A tall, distinguished-looking man stepped out and turned again toward the door of the car. "There's Taylor," I remarked, for I had seen him often at investigations before the Public Service Commission. "And Vivian, too," exclaimed Orton excitedly.
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