“I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilson to-day. I—I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn’t explain to you sooner. For—various reasons—I gave up that—that line of business. To-day they rather forced my hand.”
“Don’t you think you could do something for me, sir?”
When K. did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation.
“I’ve been lying here a good while. I didn’t say much because I knew I’d have to take a chance. Either I’d pull through or I wouldn’t, and the odds were—well, I didn’t say much. The old lady’s had a lot of trouble. But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I’ve got a right to ask. I’ll take a chance, if you will.”
“It’s only a chance, Jack.”
“I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, a lot of them, and gettin’ well to go out and starve, and—My God! Mr. Le Moyne, they can walk, and I can’t.”
K. drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith in himself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold on him for a time, had found him again.
“I’ll go over you carefully to-morrow, Jack. I’ll tell you your chances honestly.”
“I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge—”
“I’ll take it out of my board bill in the new house!”
At four o’clock that morning K. got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had been without accident.
Over Sidney’s letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And during the night ride, with K. pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt that the boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into the night, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy’s sick heart.
“You’ll see new people, new life,” he said. “In a month from now you’ll wonder why you ever hung around the Street. I have a feeling that you’re going to make good down there.”
And once, when the time for parting was very near,—”No matter what happens, keep on believing in yourself. I lost my faith in myself once. It was pretty close to hell.”
Joe’s response showed his entire self-engrossment.
“If he dies, I’m a murderer.”
“He’s not going to die,” said K. stoutly.
At four o’clock in the morning he left the car at the garage and walked around to the little house. He had had no sleep for forty-five hours; his eyes were sunken in his head; the skin over his temples looked drawn and white. His clothes were wrinkled; the soft hat he habitually wore was white with the dust of the road.
As he opened the hall door, Christine stirred in the room beyond. She came out fully dressed.
“K., are you sick?”
“Rather tired. Why in the world aren’t you in bed?”
“Palmer has just come home in a terrible rage. He says he’s been robbed of a thousand dollars.”
“Where?”
Christine shrugged her shoulders.
“He doesn’t know, or says he doesn’t. I’m glad of it. He seems thoroughly frightened. It may be a lesson.”
In the dim hall light he realized that her face was strained and set. She looked on the verge of hysteria.
“Poor little woman,” he said. “I’m sorry, Christine.”
The tender words broke down the last barrier of her self-control.
“Oh, K.! Take me away. Take me away! I can’t stand it any longer.”
She held her arms out to him, and because he was very tired and lonely, and because more than anything else in the world just then he needed a woman’s arms, he drew her to him and held her close, his cheek to her hair.
“Poor girl!” he said. “Poor Christine! Surely there must be some happiness for us somewhere.”
But the next moment he let her go and stepped back.
“I’m sorry.” Characteristically he took the blame. “I shouldn’t have done that—You know how it is with me.”
“Will it always be Sidney?”
“I’m afraid it will always be Sidney.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.’s skill had not sufficed to save him. The operation had been a marvel, but the boy’s long-sapped strength failed at the last.
K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.
“I’ve got a hunch that I can move my right foot,” he said. “Look and see.”
K. lifted the light covering.
“You’re right, old man. It’s moving.”
“Brake foot, clutch foot,” said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.
K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.
The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open his eyes.
“You’re some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I’ll put in a word for you whenever I get a chance.”
“Yes, put in a word for me,” said K. huskily.
He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator—that whatever he, K., had done of omission or commission, Johnny’s voice before the Tribunal would count.
The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and played “The Holy City.”
Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very comfortable.
“Tell her nix on the sob stuff,” he complained. “Ask her to play ‘I’m twenty-one and she’s eighteen.’”
She was rather outraged, but on K.’s quick explanation she changed to the staccato air.
“Ask her if she’ll come a little nearer; I can’t hear her.”
So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: “Are you sure I’m going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?”
“I give you my solemn word,” said K. huskily, “that you are going to be better than you have ever been in your life.”
It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy’s hands over his breast.
The violin-player stood by uncertainly.
“How very young he is! Was it an accident?”
“It was the result of a man’s damnable folly,” said K. grimly. “Somebody always pays.”
And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.
The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged for it.
The old doubts came back.
And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work.
“Why not?” he demanded, half irritably. “The secret is out. Everybody knows who you are. You’re not thinking about going back to that ridiculous gas office, are you?”
“I had some thought of going to Cuba.”
“I’m damned if I understand you. You’ve done a marvelous thing; I lie here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I’m sick of your name! And now, because a boy who wouldn’t have lived anyhow—”
“That’s not it,” K. put in hastily. “I know all that. I guess I could do it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me—I’ve never told you, have I, why I gave up before?”
Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about the room, as was his habit when troubled.
“I’ve heard the gossip; that’s all.”