“Not in a moment and not in a touch,” said Archbold, “but by degrees and little by little we’ll do away with it altogether. Remember the order of the three: hope, then faith, then victory. Cleave to that, dear Miss Messenger, and you will see that all will be well.”
In the middle of this speech a trampling approached them down the hall; now the door was pushed open and half a dozen people entered, carrying a lad of twelve or so with a stony face of agony and a rough bandage wrapped around the right leg beneath the knee. Blood dripped from the bandage. Last of the crowd to enter were a frightened man and woman. He was saying: “Stepped right out from the sidewalk with his head turned back—and the string of fish in his hand—I couldn’t dodge him—there wasn’t time to get on the brakes…”
An elderly man of the village answered in a loud voice: “I seen you tearing along like a bat out of hell. You took that corner like a wildcat coming off the top of a hot stove, and you know it. There weren’t any chance for Billy here to get clear of you. I seen it, and others alongside of me seen it, or ought to have. Mr. Speeder, this is gunna cost you a whole pot of money!”
“Don’t you go worrying,” said Billy to the accused man. “I won’t make any trouble for you. I was thinking too much about the fish I was carrying.”
Someone was explaining to the great Archbold: “You’re the closest one. You do doctoring or something like it. Take a look to see can you stop that leg bleeding. It’s broke plumb bad. It’s broke terrible bad!”
Nora took Nancy by the arm. “We’ll get out of here,” she said. “There’s no use taking up space and air where we can’t do any good. Mr. Archbold will take care of him.”
“Wait, Nora,” said the girl. “See how brave he is, poor lamb. Why don’t they prop up his head a little?”
She was straightway on the floor beside him with her coat tucked under his head and her handkerchief busy wiping the sweat of pain from his face.
“Fishing? At this time of year?” said Nancy to the boy, smiling.
“You know,” he said. “Over in the lagoon by the old boathouse.”
“Ah, I remember the old boathouse but I thought that everybody else had forgotten it,” said Nancy.
“Everybody has,” agreed Billy. “That’s why everything over there is so swell and so still. Nobody ever comes there. Not all year long. And—and—”
Kildare barely heard Nancy murmur:
“Don’t try to talk, Billy. I know there’s terrible pain, poor old dear!”
He managed to lift his eyes and give her one twisting grin of gratitude; after that, his whole soul was concentrated on that great and terrible ideal of silence, that man-made God or tyrant of those who profess manliness.
The great Archbold, in the meantime, stood for a moment with all eyes fixed upon him. He stood with his legs braced well apart, his arms folded high on his chest and his bushy brows drawn down over his eyes as he stared at the boy.
“We’ll see to this,” said the healer and, disappearing into his office for an instant, he came back with a case which he opened, exposing shining rows of steel instruments.
“And now,” said Archbold, “we’ll look into the matter.”
He tossed some cloth to bystanders, saying: “Just mop the blood up from the floor, will you? If it runs into the corners, you know what blood is—have to tear up the floor to get rid of the signs of it, almost…Now let me see this young man…”
So saying, he undid the bandage which had been bound around the leg of Billy in the street below. It was a compound fracture of both bones of the lower leg, the splintered edges thrusting out through the skin. The blood came fast. Three or four of the audience had enough after a single glance and got out hastily.
“An artery!” said the great Archbold. “And the bones right out through the skin. Too bad, too bad. Except that he’s young enough to learn how to use an artificial limb pretty well. But they’re never as good as the limbs God gave us.”
Kildare turned his back and looked out the window, trying to forget the damage which ignorance might do to the lad. A moment later, the first sign of pain came from the boy—a low, stifled moan.
Kildare whipped around. Billy, with his eyes closed, blue-white around the mouth, was trying to smile and endure. Archbold seemed to be fumbling aimlessly.
“What will you do to the leg, Doctor Archbold?” asked Kildare anxiously.
“A tourniquet above the knee, young man,” said the great Archbold, pointing. “And after the flow of blood has been stopped, the leg must come off at the knee. A pity, isn’t it? But better the leg than the life.”
Poor Billy, as he heard this pronouncement, turned his face suddenly toward Nancy, and the girl covered his eyes, holding him close.
“You mean amputation, actually?” said Kildare.
“Mean it? Of course I mean it!” exclaimed Archbold. “Now if you will give me a little more room, my kind friends…”
“You damned butcher!” said Kildare through his teeth.
“Ah? Ah?” cried Archbold. “What is this?”
Kildare snatched up the medical kit. He said savagely: “Keep your hands away from him. You rat, don’t touch him.”
Then he was on his knees and at work. He had to open the wound first until the blood from the artery was spurting. With a hemostat first dipped in alcohol he clipped the open blood vessel. Hemostat and all he covered with a swift bandage and then arranged the splints. He was halfway through his work when something drew up his eyes involuntarily, and he saw Nancy staring at him in horror. It was only a glance, but it was sufficient to tell him that he had revealed himself and lost his hold on her for ever. When his work ended he saw that she was gone from the room.
“We’ll get you to my hospital, Billy,” he said, “and that leg of yours will be fixed so that it’ll be as strong as the other one. Will you trust me for that?”
He stood up in time to see the great Archbold disappearing into his inner office; the key sounded in the lock as the miracle man protected the rear of his retreat. But that did not matter now. The ambulance had been telephoned for. In an hour or so Billy would be getting the best care the great hospital could give him.
Somebody was saying:
“This doctor that ain’t a doctor—this Archbold that was gunna whip off the leg at the knee—don’t he need a little looking into?”
It seemed to be the solemn and grim opinion of the others that this was the truth; but Kildare had no time to listen to them. Nora had caught him by the arm and said: “Hurry, Mr. Stevens. Nancy ain’t here. She’s gone. Out to get the air, poor darling, and she mustn’t be left alone. Lord God, what a shock it must of been to her to see that you are a doctor, after all! If I ever mistrust the Irish in me when it speaks again, call me a fool.”
Kildare went hastily with her down the hallway. The others would see the lad safely in the ambulance, of course, when it arrived.
“When did Nancy leave the room?” he asked.
“I can’t say for the life of me,” said the nurse. “I was that busy watching your fingers do their dance and never tripping themselves up once at all. But oh, Doctor Stevens, or whatever your unlucky name may be, why did you lie to poor Nancy? And who sent you spying on her?”
Kildare did not answer. He got with Nora down to the car they had left in the street, but Nancy was not in it. Her absence was more of a shock to him than to Nora, who said calmly enough: “Ah, she’s gone back to the old house to have a cry—and God forgive you, doctor! But hurry, man, hurry to come to her. She’s a nervous girl. She’s a terribly nervous girl if there’s one in the world.”
They skidded every corner on the way back. When he had jammed on the brakes before the house, he jumped from the car and was already back through the lower floor to the kitchen before the voice of Nora entered the building crying: “Nancy! Oh, Nancy, darling, where are you?”