CHAPTER VII
THE FINAL PLUNGE
Sunday
THE church bells tell me the day. I have been
through another terrible ordeal. I don’t know how
long ago since I came down from the north tower. The
noise was really a shot. I found Peter on the floor
with the pistol by his side, and blood pouring from a
wound in his breast.
I understood immediately what I had to do. It
was impossible to send for a doctor. The scandal of
the suicide would make life impossible ever after, and
he would immediately discover that it was due to
dope. The burden must be on my own shoulders. I
must nurse my boy back to life.
I remember that I had been too weak to walk down
from the north tower. I climbed to the balustrades
and gasped, and slid myself, sitting, from step to step.
I was almost blind, too. My eyes seemed unable to
focus on anything. |
But the moment I saw what had happened, my
strength came back to me, at least, not my strength
but the strength of nature. It flowed through me
like the wind blowing through a flimsy ragged
curtain.
The cartridges were very old, and the powder must
have lost its strength; for the bullet turned on his
breast bone and ran round the ribs. It was really a
trifling wound; but he was so weak that he might
have died from loss of blood. I got some water, and
washed the wounds, and bound them up as best I
could. When the waiter came, I sent him for proper
things from the chemist, and some invalid food. For
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