Jane took the paper and read it again. "Humph!" she commented.
"Old Sheets wrote it himself. Mr. Cashdollar couldn't think
'reinstatement,' let alone spell it."

"The question is not who wrote it, but what we are to do," said the
red-haired person. "Shall I let old Sheets come back?"

"If you do," said Jane fiercely, "I shall hate you the rest of my
life."

And as it was clear by this time that the red-haired person could
imagine nothing more horrible, it was settled then and there that he
should stay.

"There are only two wards," he said. "In the men's a man named
Higgins is able to be up and is keeping things straight. And in the
woman's ward Mary O'Shaughnessy is looking after them. The furnaces
are the worst. I'd have forgiven almost anything else. I've sat up
all night nursing the fires, but they breathed their last at six
this morning and I guess there's nothing left but to call the
coroner."

Jane had achieved a tolerable plate of toast by that time and four
eggs. Also she had a fine flush, a combination of heat from the gas
stove and temper.

"They ought to be ashamed," she cried angrily, "leaving a lot of
sick people!"

"Oh, as to that," said the red-headed person, "there aren't any