Then the professional eye of
the old doctor began to take in the situation. A half-used
roll of antiseptic lint lay on the floor; the fumes of
the disinfectants and of the ansthetic still hung on the
air. Tom's description of the case had suggested
appendicitis.
"What was the trouble?" he asked quickly.
The young doctor told him, giving him such a thoroughly
scientific history of the case that the old doctor's
opinion of him underwent a radical change. The young
doctor explained briefly what he had attempted to do by
the operation; the regular breathing and apparently normal
temperature of the patient was, to the old doctor,
sufficient proof of its success.
He stooped suddenly to examine the dressing that the
young doctor was showing him, but his face twitched with
some strong emotion--pride, professional jealousy, hatred
were breaking down before a stronger and a worthier
feeling.
He turned abruptly and grasped the young doctor's hand.
"Clay!" he cried, "it was a great piece of work, here,
alone, and by lamplight. You are a brave man, and I honour
you." Then his voice broke. "I'd give every day of my
miserable life to be able to do this once more, just
once, but I haven't the nerve, Clay"; the hand that the
young doctor held trembled. "I haven't the nerve. I've
been going on a whiskey nerve too long."
"Dr. Barner," the young man replied, as he returned the
other's grasp, "I thank you for your good words, but I
wasn't alone when I did it.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203