I'll bet you feel worse about it than he does,
Doc."
The doctor groaned.
"Come, Doc," she said, plucking his sleeve, "take a look
at Arthur."
The doctor rose uncertainly and paced up and down the
floor with his face in his hands, swaying like a drunken
man.
"O God!" he moaned, "if I could but bring back his life
with mine; but I can't! I can't! I can't!"
Pearl watched him, but said not a word. At last she said:
"Doc, I think Arthur has appendicitis. Come and have a
look at him, and see if he hasn't."
With a supreme effort the doctor gained control of himself
and made a hasty but thorough examination.
"He has," he said, "a well developed case of it."
Pearl handed him his satchel. "Here, then," she said,
"go at him."
"I can't do it, Pearl," he cried. "I can't. He'll die,
I tell you, like that other poor fellow. I can't send
another man to meet his Maker."
"Oh, he's ready!" Pearl interrupted him. "Don't hold
back on Arthur's account."
"I can't do it," he repeated hopelessly. "He'll die
under my knife, I can't kill two men in one night. O God,
be merciful to a poor, blundering, miserable wretch!" he
groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Pearl noticed
that the back of his coat quivered like human flesh.
Arthur's breath was becoming more and more laboured; his
eyes roved sightlessly around the room; his head rolled
on the pillow in a vain search for rest; his fingers
clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes.
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