The latter's right hand was pressed hard against a bloody place in Agricola's side.
"Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld," said the doctor, "and a chair and some lint, and some Castile soap, and some towels and sticking-plaster, and anything else you can think of.

Agricola's about scared to death--" "Professor Frowenfeld," groaned the aged citizen, "I am basely and mortally stabbed!" "Right on, Frowenfeld," continued the doctor, "right on into the back room.

Fasten that front door.

Here, Agricola, sit down here.

That's right, Frow., stir up a little fire.