Читать книгу Disputed Passage - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 5

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In mid-February of Beaven’s senior year, the capable members of the class were in something of a dither.

All examinations at the Medical College were to be viewed with deep respect, if not alarm, but on this occasion they were of momentous importance, for they had much to do with determining the internship assignments.

Obviously it was impossible for more than a few, from each graduating class, to intern in the University Hospital under the expert eye of the faculty. The hospital could absorb about ten. The rest of them were expected to make other arrangements.

Some of them, resident in far-distant places, preferred—regardless of their scholastic rating—to intern in the locality where they hoped eventually to practice. In many cases the graduate had a father, uncle, or influential friend in the profession who could be depended upon to secure for him a satisfactory berth.

The prized assignments, however, which were based on high marks, entitled the graduate to two or three or four years in the University environment where he was directly under the guidance of men who were considered mentors in their respective specialties. Out of this fortunate group, a smaller number—only two or three, each year—received still more valuable plums in the nature of apprenticeships to certain professors in whose departments they had exhibited unusual interest and skill.

These conferments of honor and glory did not always turn out to the ultimate benefit of the appointee, however desirable they appeared when announced at the convocation.

Graduate Jones, having shown a natural flair for aural surgery, would be taken under the wing of Professor Smith, the king-pin in Otology. Young Jones had access to Smith’s personal laboratory where he became a little of everything from dish-washer to researchist. He stood at his chief’s elbow in difficult operations; and, in certain sublime moments, assisted. He fagged for Doctor Smith with all the humility of a lackey; drove back to the house to get Smith’s other pair of glasses; telephoned social messages of regret when there was some expert lying to be done which couldn’t be trusted to the artless Miss Wonderly, the office secretary.

After the wistful young Jones had been sharpening Smith’s lead pencils, keeping track of Smith’s lecture-notes, and taking Smith’s car down town to be lubricated—for a couple of years—he might be permitted to turn out, some inclement night, to minister to the chronic ear-ache of Grandma Perkins, one of Smith’s private patients who had been bequeathed to him and his heirs and assigns forever by the late Professor Brown, his predecessor in the Chair of Otology.

From then on, young Jones’s future was unpredictable. He might remain as Smith’s associate, receiving more and more work of the sort that the chief didn’t care to bother with. In this capacity there was plenty of sound experience to be had, both in aural surgery and clandestine starvation. If Smith considerately died before Jones was too infirm to be of any practical use, the latter—assuming he had made himself solid with the powers—might succeed to the Chair. Here the odds were against him, however, for there was a frequent clamor for new blood on the faculty; and some of the Directors seemed to feel that the classic remark, ‘A prophet is not without honor save in his own country,’ was one of the ten commandments, instead of a dismaying comment on the valuation of merit according to its geographical remoteness.

Desperate at thirty-three, Jones might tug loose to engage in private practice, in which he might do very well if his drudgeries as Smith’s valet, stooge, and boot-licker had not demolished his personality. The appointment was thought to be a plum, but it was as dangerous as dynamite and it ditched more men than it distinguished.

Tubby Forrester had been without a graduate assistant since the first of the year. Young Royce, who had held the post for five years, had gone to teach Anatomy in the deep South. Tubby had been enraged; but, having observed that Royce was determined to go, had aided him in securing a good position.

Everybody was curious to know whether Tubby now intended to tap someone for the vacant job. Unquestionably he needed an able assistant, for he was known to be up to his ears in some private experiments in neuropathology; incubation stuff that required no end of diligent and expert attention. As the matter stood, Tubby was obliged to visit his laboratory at all sorts of odd hours—holidays, midnights, mealtimes—to note the successive phenomena disclosed by his chemical concoctions.

Of course, Jack Beaven was the logical candidate for this position. Anybody could tell you that. Beaven knew so much more about the physical aspects of neurology than anyone else in the class that comparisons were merely silly. He had a peculiar genius for it. And but for their personal animosity, it was inevitable that Tubby would appoint him. That factor, however, made the problem too difficult. It was beyond anyone’s imagination that Tubby would sentence himself to such constant and intimate contact with a man he had taunted and insulted; nor was it likely that Beaven would accept the job, in the improbable event of its being offered to him. Under normal circumstances it was exactly the opportunity he would most need and desire, but not at the price of enduring—every day and at close range—humiliations he could neither avoid nor avenge.

During the past year, Jack had accepted Tubby’s jabs and jibes in the classroom without attempting to defend himself. On one occasion, however—only a week before the examinations—he had shown that his docility must be accounted for on other grounds than fear. The incident had not improved their personal relations.

Maxwell, grand old exponent of abdominal surgery, had done a most interesting operation on an ulcer requiring the removal of a short section of the small intestine. The demonstration was made before the senior clinic, the students giving it their rapt attention. During the operation, Doctor Maxwell explained that such was the rapidity of natural repair at this point that the suture would be complete and the intestine ready to resume its normal processes at the expiration of four hours.

He further declared that the sphincter muscle at the pyloric orifice of the stomach contracted, immediately upon the beginning of the operation, and remained taut for five hours, to prevent the contents of the stomach from proceeding into the intestine, thus giving the lesion plenty of time to heal itself before going to work again.

After the patient had been wheeled out, still unconscious, the doctor said, ‘This act of the pyloric sphincter, which makes the operation possible, is to be studied in the field of Neurology. If you want to know anything about that phase of it, you must take it up with Doctor Forrester. And if he explains it so that you think you understand it, you will know a great deal more about it than I do.’

Evidently someone had queried Tubby on the subject; for, next morning, in his lecture—they were in the midst of a course on the surgery of the autonomic nervous system—Tubby made reference to the case.

‘Before presenting the conventional theories held by students of Neurology, I think it might be of interest to learn your own deductions. I would like to have each of you write a paper to be submitted next Thursday. This assignment,’ he added, with a sly smile, ‘will afford an opportunity for those of you, who still believe in miracles, to let yourselves go, and give us a real taste of the glad evangel. I may ask Brother Beaven to read us his sermon aloud. We would be gratified if he could find a helpful moral lesson, based on this text.’

It was generally believed that Tubby would not carry out this threat. By Thursday he would have forgotten about it. But Jack decided to be prepared, in the event that he was called upon to read his paper before the class.

Having concluded his Thursday lecture, Tubby said, ‘And now we will hear from Mr. Beaven. He has been requested to give us a few remarks on the wisdom of the pylorus. It is to be hoped he will add something to the sum of accrued knowledge on this matter.... Mr. Beaven, I suggest that you come to the front where your fellow-scientists may see and hear you without risking a cervic dislocation.’

Jack had enjoyed his task of preparing the paper. The subject was of immense interest to him. He spared no pains in collecting information. It was a scholarly essay, and the class listened to it with utmost concentration.

Briefly recapitulating the diagnosis, and the steps in the operation, he proceeded to discuss the peculiar emergency-act of the sphincter valve.

‘It has been shown by Doctor Maxwell,’ continued Beaven, ‘that the sphincter muscle closed tightly, upon the instant that the intestine was severed, and remained closed until an hour after sufficient time had elapsed for Nature to complete the repair.

‘Obviously, the autonomic system provided that a signal be given, arising at the point of the injury, and conveyed to the sphincter muscle. This explanation, however, does not suffice. The presence of the ulcer had already constituted an injury to the intestine, an injury serious enough to suggest that the acidulous contents of the stomach, continuing to flow past the damaged area, would make the lesion increasingly dangerous.

‘No such signal was sent to the sphincter; or, if sent, it was unheeded, the sphincter having decided, apparently, that in spite of the unhappy circumstances the business of digestion must carry on. At the moment, however, that the operation began, which gave promise of a remedy for the injured area, the sphincter was willing to co-operate. Up to that time, the sphincter knew there was no use doing anything about it.’

The class was vastly entertained by Beaven’s evident plan to edge over into the field of ethics. Everybody’s eyes darted to and fro from Tubby’s face to Jack’s. Tubby’s was a study. He sat with averted eyes, toying with his little moustache, listening with respectful attention.

‘It has been suggested,’ Jack went on, ‘that the moral implications on this problem be set forth. In the capacity of class homilist, I venture to call your attention, brethren and sisters, to the extraordinary common-sense displayed by the pyloric sphincter. It is informed, through the autonomic nervous system, that something is going on in a gut which, if continued for very long, will bring the whole institution to ruin.

‘An unwise, impatient, unstable pyloric sphincter would be apt to say to the damaged intestine, “It is obvious that you are no good. You are here to do your part in the digestion of food for the nourishment of the whole body. You are not attending to your business. Indeed, every additional task you are asked to perform makes you less and less able to brace up and carry on. That being the case, I shall clamp down hard, and there will be no more work of any sort for you to do. Your resignation is accepted. The funeral will occur on Monday. Friends may send flowers, or omit them at the announced desire of the relatives, and be privately damned for their discourtesy.”’

Tubby unexpectedly grinned at this, and the class gave Jack the benefit of an appreciative laugh.

‘But because the sphincter is wise,’ continued the paper, ‘with a wisdom out of all proportion to that which is commonly thought to be seated somewhere between the cowlick and the collar-button, it permits the contents of the stomach to flow through; reluctantly, and wishing the circumstances otherwise, but unwilling to close out the whole business in a mood of exasperated superiority.

‘In my opinion, dearly beloved, however miraculous may seem the decisive act of the pylorus in shutting down for a period of five hours—when it had become apparent that an outside force was at work to insure the repair of the injured intestine—this phenomenon is not as difficult to understand as the patience of the sphincter in refusing to exercise drastic judgment through the days when things aren’t going as they should.

‘One feels that the easiest thing a sphincter can do, under such conditions, is to close up. The act that reveals its wisdom is its forbearance and restraint in the presence of another organ’s disability.’

There was a momentary pause; and then, in a serious tone which couldn’t quite be evaluated—whether it was spoken in irony or in earnest—Beaven added: “‘Grant this, Lord, unto us all.”’

Tubby arose during the round of generous applause and when it was quiet he said, ‘Brother Beaven’s sentimental discussion of the tender mercy practiced by the wise little sphincter valve has been most inspiring. Were it not for the fact that we might disturb our neighbors, I would suggest that we close this meeting with the Long Meter Doxology.... The congregation—without further benefit of clergy—stands dismissed.’

On the day after the mid-semester recess, there was a convocation of the senior class. It was understood that at this assembly the list of internships would be read. Tubby, as the chairman of the faculty committee on such assignments, delivered a brief address, reasserting—and deploring—the fact that the University Hospital could not provide room for a larger number.

The place was very quiet, very tense. Those who felt they were on the border-line where their acceptance or rejection might have been determined by the mere fraction of a point, listened with strained faces and pounding hearts. Tubby pinched on his gold glasses and took up the paper.

Jack Beaven’s name headed the list. There was a little gasp of surprise, and a spontaneous burst of applause. Tubby flushed slightly and held up his hand in a signal for order. For a moment or two thereafter, he stood blinking indecisively as if he might be contemplating a comment, but apparently thought better of it and continued reading. Having set itself a pattern for behavior in the reception of this news, the class applauded all the names as they were announced. Tony Wollason made no attempt to conceal his joy when, at the end of the list, he found himself among the immortals.

As for the special appointments, only two, said Tubby, were being made this year. Mr. Thomas, whose work in blood-and-skin had shown promise, would be invited to serve as student assistant to Doctor Meeker. The class offered felicitations to Thomas with a brief clapping of hands. No one knew Thomas very well. He was a mole.

Tubby tapped his papers into precise alignment, signifying that the event was about to be concluded. He took off his glasses and seemed uncertain about the manner in which his final announcement should be phrased.

‘And now,’ he said, with a half-derisive smile, ‘I find myself about to emulate the mysterious wisdom of the pyloric sphincter.’

The class, quick to catch the significance of Tubby’s allusion, burst into applause. Say what you liked about the old demon, he was a good sport! Tubby’s stock was riding a strong bullish market.

Jack’s face colored a little as he realized that everybody was curious to learn his thoughts.

Tubby went on, quietly.

‘I am asking Brother Beaven to hold forth in my own laboratory through the coming year. He will serve as my private chaplain. He will spend the remainder of his time with one eye on my test-tubes and the other on the clock; or, when the experiment is more deliberate, on the almanac.’ He paused, reflectively. ‘This appointment,’ continued Tubby, feeling his way, with narrowed eyes, ‘may be somewhat in the nature of a surprise. If anyone ever tells you that these special appointments at the Medical College are based upon personal congeniality, or favoritism, or that they are withheld because of temperamental antipathy or private prejudice, I hope you will be able to remember that Beaven and I are at work together solely in the interest of neurological research.’

It was quite a dramatic moment. The class felt that it had been let in on a most unusual scene. The more analytical ones, who thought they knew something about psychology, guessed that Tubby—not quite up to the exactions of a private chat with Jack, on the subject of their relationship—was defining his own attitude in this open session; a strange procedure, but not stranger than many another impulsive act of the erratic neurologist.

Tubby signified that he had said his say, and bowed in mock deference toward his rather bewildered appointee. Suddenly the room was deathly still. Jack had risen to his feet. He bowed respectfully to Tubby, and said, in a steady voice, ‘I shall do my best, sir. I, too, believe that “the ship is more than the crew.”’

‘You mean,’ said Tubby, ‘you don’t have to like the captain in order to obey him?’

Jack nodded.

‘That’s what I mean, sir,’ he said, and sat down.

‘This,’ said Tubby, ‘is a good example of the scientific spirit.... That will be all. You are at liberty.’

Among the scattered members of the medical profession who, as former students and interns, had experienced shabby treatment at Doctor Forrester’s hands, not many had nourished a lasting ill-will.

For the most part they spoke of him in about the same way that they remembered certain upperclassmen in college who had paddled them inexcusably on the night of their fraternity initiation. It was something to be laughed over, after a few years had passed.

There was a small number, however, to whom Tubby’s ruthlessness was no joke and would never be a joke though they lived to a hundred; men who had been hectored and badgered and finally canned out of school because, perhaps quite inadvertently, they had ruffled the old cock’s feathers.

Not infrequently, through the years, a chap would suddenly pack up and leave the Medical College or the hospital, unable to endure any more indignities. In such cases the fellow was likely to deliver to his intimates a malediction, swearing by all the larger gods and smaller fishes that he would get even with Tubby sometime, somewhere, somehow. But, as was to be expected from so much heat and bluster, the tumult subsided as fresher frets or more profitable engagements distracted the attention of the injured. So, Tubby had never been actually kicked out the window or torn limb from limb, as had often been unpleasantly predicted.

It was a common remark among the medics—and younger fry on the faculty, too—that eventually Tubby would get his block knocked off, but everyone knew that an earnest wish had sired the forecast and that nobody would ever go to the length of doing physical damage to Tubby, however much such chastisement might be merited.

Doctor Lawrence Carpenter, ex-member of the Medical School’s class of 1920, hadn’t blustered nor threatened when in the middle of his third year he had departed. He had left a brief note for Doctor Forrester stating in calm, business-like phrases that he felt he would be more comfortable in another medical college. There was a postscript which said, ‘I’ll be seeing you, one day, I hope.’

Young Carpenter’s chief offense had been of negligible importance. He was of a wealthy family, had been accustomed to spending his large allowance freely, dressed expensively and rather flashily, lived in a ritzy apartment, and drove about in a long rakish roadster that had enough engine-power to drag ten times its weight at an unlawful speed.

Apparently it had never occurred to Larry Carpenter that in an environment where most of the people lived modestly, if not indeed with a pathetic frugality, his reckless extravagance might excite unfavorable comment.

Fortunately offsetting this bad habit, Larry was co-operative, democratic, genial. He always pulled more than his share of the load when something was afoot requiring class funds, and did it unobtrusively. He entertained frequently and his guests were not selected either on a basis of their having or not having ample means of their own. Beyond question, some of his fellow-students envied him, but not bitterly. Frequently they ragged him about his extensive wardrobe and a few of the more audacious called him ‘Gotrocks’ to his face, but nobody tried to make his life difficult; nobody but Tubby Forrester.

Tubby had taken a savage dislike to Carpenter at once. It was commonly believed this aversion could be accounted for by the simple fact that Carpenter was not a very diligent student, that he took all the cuts, that he was frequently tardy, and—more particularly—that he refused to be cowed by Tubby’s satirical rebukes. But, in the opinion of a few of the more discerning, Tubby didn’t like the idea of Larry’s financial rating. It gave him an air of independence. When Tubby wanted to administer reproach, he went at it scientifically, studying his victim’s vulnerable spots and taking an unerring aim at the point where he could do the most damage. But he never was quite able to call his shots when he went after Larry. Larry would grin, as if he might be saying, ‘Entertain yourself, Doc, but keep it in mind that I’m not actually obliged to stay here.’ Now and again, in private, someone would suggest that Tubby was jealous. And there was no question about his fondness for good things. He dressed very well, owned a car that made most of the vehicles parked in that vicinity look like junk. When he went to Europe in the summer his stateroom was on A-deck in a five-day ship. Tubby was well-to-do, and didn’t object to your knowing it.

That may have had something to do with his feeling toward Larry Carpenter, or it may not. But, at all events, Tubby began early to ride Larry, insinuating—when the unhappy fellow had muffed a difficult or purposely confusing question—that perhaps if less time were spent on physical adornment and a little more on mental beautification his chances of graduating would be improved. When someone else had failed to answer a question, Tubby was almost sure to gaze disgustedly at Larry, and say, ‘And you wouldn’t know; would you?’—until, one day, Larry put an end to that mode of address by answering, impertinently, ‘I wouldn’t.’

But finally the time came when Carpenter couldn’t stand any more, and he left. And perhaps that might have been the end of the story if Tubby hadn’t persisted in his animosity. When queried by the Dean of a seaboard medical college, to which Larry had applied for admission, Tubby had let loose a reply that practically insured a rejection. Maybe Tubby thought he was merely being honest. He wrote that Carpenter was an indifferent student, which was a fact, and added that if he had less money and more brains it would be to his advantage.

Pretty well baffled but not beaten, Larry had taken the matter up with the Carpenters’ family physician, who made a prompt and thorough investigation, with the result that Larry was accepted, after considerable delay. But, word having leaked that he was entering at this odd hour—within a month of the end of the college year—because of trouble elsewhere, he was received merely on approval.

Having benefited none by his unpleasant experience, he continued to live in a manner quite out of step with the prevailing economy, which did little to set him right in the opinion of an institution that already viewed him askance. So—he had a tough time there; was obliged, upon graduation, to intern in a hospital where the range of clinical material was limited; and felt that he was badly used, all around.

A dispassionate invoice of his woes might have shown that he was responsible for them himself. Even his close friends realized that he should have known he couldn’t act the playboy and expect preferments at the hands of earnest people who slaved while they skimped. In Larry’s opinion, however, Tubby Forrester was the fellow who had done him in, and the more he brooded over it the more dangerous was his deepening resolution to get even.

The problem of breaking into active practice—perplexing enough under the most favorable circumstances—proved insurmountable. He was accepted on the staff of a reputable private clinic where it was hoped he might increase a desirable clientèle because of his acquaintance with the society set, but apparently his social connections had more confidence in him at the bridge-table than the operating-table, and they shunned his sumptuous office as if some lethal contagion were raging there. This finished him off.

With a half-dozen rich and idle cronies he went on an extended cruise in the South Seas which turned out to be a protracted binge. Until then, although convivial, Larry was more temperate than most of his sort. Now that he was afloat, physically and emotionally, he loosened the restraints. Whenever he was remorseful and jittery and idiotically self-piteous, he laid all the blame for his failures and excesses onto Tubby, and concocted ingenious plans for vengeance.

Sometimes, when he was at loose ends—he always got mean and quarrelsome whenever he tried to drink himself up out of a hang-over—he would mumble his griefs and confide his sinister program of retaliation, but nobody paid any attention to him, further than to tell him he was just a damn’ fool, plastered to the eyebrows, which, while true enough, didn’t quite cover the case. Larry meant it, even when sober.

The end of the year had come, and the Medical College had finished its work. There had been a few days’ recess which the seniors had spent idly—if they were remaining—or packing their dunnage if they were leaving for good. Commencement Week was at hand and the town was filling with visitors, parents, alumni, and wiseacres from neighboring colleges.

Carpenter, whose University class was having a reunion, had announced to a score of intimates that he was throwing a party on Tuesday night at the Livingstone Hotel. Immediately after the baseball game, they were to join him in the suite he had engaged. It was a roistering event, the management of the hotel admitting afterwards that while their house was not unused to racket and breakage, an all-time record for damage and disorder had undoubtedly been achieved. Larry saw his guests off to their rooms at dawn but he did not go to bed. For breakfast he had a large bowl of onion soup, some bicarbonate of soda, and two Scotch highballs. Then he took a hot bath, nervously shaved his chin full of nicks, and called for his car.

Arriving at the Medical College campus at eight, he proceeded to Tubby’s office, hopeful of finding him there early. He was unarmed, but there was the light of battle in his swollen eyes.

Tubby was seated at his desk when Larry entered, without knocking. He was presently leaving for the University Administration Building where the faculty contingent of the Commencement procession would mobilize for the customary parade to the Auditorium, where in the absence of Dean Emery, he would read the names of the young medical men entitled to degrees. His impressive black gown, with the symbolic green snakes climbing a pole embroidered on the sleeve, was draped across the back of a chair, his gold and green and black silk hood was folded on the desk, and his mortar-board with the bright gold tassel reposed on top of it; well-deserved trappings which he had worn every Commencement for sixteen years, but was not to wear today, on account of an accident which Prexy regretfully announced when stating that Doctor Osgood would present the candidates for the degree—Doctor of Medicine.

He glanced up at the intruder, whom he failed to recognize immediately, blinked a few times, and laid down his pen.

‘I see you don’t remember me, Tubby,’ rasped Carpenter, truculently. ‘You gave me the sack, six years ago, and then pursued me with a dirty letter to discredit me.’

‘You’re drunk,’ said Tubby. ‘I suggest that you go somewhere and sleep it off. Then, if you think you want to talk to me, I shall listen to you.’

Larry lurched forward, spread out both hands on the desk, and growled, ‘Well, if I’m drunk, that’s your fault. And what I’ve got to say to you, I’m goin’ to say—right now!’

‘Perhaps you’d better pretend you’re a gentleman,’ advised Tubby, loftily. ‘If you insist on talking, take off your hat, and sit down. And be brief.’

‘I take my hat off,’ said Carpenter, thickly, ‘only in places worthy of a decent man’s respect. And I haven’t come here to sit down and visit. I promised myself, long time ago, I would come back here, sometime when it was convenient, and punch your nose. And this is the day. Maybe it will be rather awkward for you—my showing up just as you are getting ready to go over to the Auditorium and show off your finery, but that’s your picnic; not mine. If you want to wear a lot o’ colors, you might as well have a red beak and a black eye. Now—will you take it sitting, or would you prefer to stand up?’

‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ said Tubby, pushing back his chair. ‘I haven’t had much experience in fighting. I’ve delegated all that to my dog.’

Larry moved around the corner of the desk and stood with feet wide apart.

‘Better take your glasses off,’ he warned.

Tubby thought so too, and laid them down deliberately.

‘It’s a pity to spoil that mug,’ taunted Carpenter, taking a step forward.

At that instant, Tubby waded in courageously. He had spoken the truth about his inexperience in fighting. He whanged away wildly with both hands and both eyes shut. Carpenter backed off a little and took his measure; then he began to fulfill his promise. Tubby’s valor was in fine fettle, but his technique was bad. He left his stomach unguarded until his wind gave out, and then he began leading with his chin. His flesh was soft and Carpenter’s knuckles were hard. Presently they were in the center of the room, Tubby having felt that he needed more space, and Larry willing to accommodate him. Now there was a bad cut over Tubby’s left eye and his nose was bleeding. The battle was going to be over, pretty soon. They both felt that, confidently.

Then the door opened.

Beaven had been in Tubby’s laboratory to check the temperature of an incubation. On his way out he heard the sound of scuffling in the office. For a moment he stood listening intently; then opened the door. The belligerents paused to take note of his arrival. Tubby was panting hard. His face was white as chalk, and bleeding in a half-dozen places.

‘Get out of here!’ yelled Carpenter, as Beaven stepped between them. ‘I mean to finish this job!’

Tubby leaned back wearily against the edge of the desk, holding on for support and swaying dizzily. Carpenter elbowed Beaven aside and drew back his arm to apply the final blow. Before he had a chance to deliver it, he found himself suddenly whirled about.

‘So—you want in it too, do you?’ he snarled, facing his new antagonist. ‘Well, take that!’ He struck savagely, but the blow fell short.

Jack didn’t relish the task that had fallen to him, for it was plainly evident that the big fellow was in a drunken frenzy, but it was no time to be considerate. He saw no reason for prolonging the engagement. The chap was running wild, and would have to be put away promptly and decisively. He deliberately selected a spot on the mandible, just below the second bicuspid, where the foramen gives exit to the mental branch of the fifth nerve, and struck it a sledge-hammer blow that would have knocked the bronze image of a major-general out of his saddle. Carpenter’s knees buckled under him and he dropped limply to the floor.

Taking up the telephone. Jack asked for the Medical Library. Only ten minutes ago he had left Wollason there, who had gone in to return some books, and was to wait until Jack finished his errand in the laboratory.

‘Come up to Doctor Forrester’s office,’ he said, quietly. ‘There has been a little accident. Don’t say anything—and come quickly.’

Tubby had groped his way around to the other side of the desk and was slumped in his chair. He roused with an effort and watched Beaven who, down on one knee, was examining the fallen warrior.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ asked Tubby, huskily.

Jack turned back an eyelid, felt the pulse, unbuttoned the man’s collar.

‘He’ll come around, presently,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

‘Former student here,’ mumbled Tubby. ‘Drunken bounder.’

‘Umm,’ Jack nodded, comprehendingly.

‘I hope we may be able to keep this quiet,’ said Tubby, with a dry throat.

‘Yes, sir.’

Tony Wollason opened the door and surveyed the scene with wide eyes.

‘Jeze!’ he exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘Shut the door, Tony. This drunken bruiser came here and assaulted Doctor Forrester. It’s quite important this doesn’t get out. Give him a sniff of something and stay here with him until he is able to stand up. Then take him to Doyle’s in a taxi and put him in my bed. Don’t do it until you’re sure the building is cleared. Everybody will be over at the Auditorium presently.’

‘But, hell, Jack—how about Commencement?’

‘We’ll be there in time for our diplomas.’ Beaven turned to his stricken chief. ‘Now, Doctor, if you’re able, we will go over to your laboratory, and I’ll try to put you together again. Taking him by the arm, he led Tubby out through the lecture-room and into the small laboratory where he eased him into a chair. Tubby was pale and shaky.

‘Nauseated?’ inquired Jack, coldly professional. He lighted the gas under a small sterilizer.

‘A little,’ gulped Tubby, feebly.

‘Want to throw up or lie down—or both?’ Jack’s tone was dryly indifferent. He went to a glass case and laid out a pair of scissors, a roll of antiseptic gauze, a spool of adhesive tape, and a couple of surgical needles.

Tubby retched ominously and Jack brought him a basin. Then, going out into the anatomical laboratory, he wheeled in an autopsy-table and helped his distinguished patient to spread himself upon it. Tubby sank back with a groan. Jack began sponging the bloody wounds.

‘Fortunate—you—arrived,’ muttered Tubby, at length. ‘The fellow—would have beaten me—to death.’

‘Probably,’ drawled Jack, swabbing the open cuts with an earnest antiseptic. ‘That’s why I stopped him. We can’t have you killed, you know.’

‘He came up—to try to settle—an old score,’ explained Tubby, clenching his hands as the disinfectant bit deep.

‘Well—I don’t know how much he owed you’—Jack paused to rig a needle—‘but he seems to have paid off quite a bit of it.’

Tubby grinned sourly and closed his eyes as the needle-work began, but did not flinch.

‘Took me by surprise,’ mumbled Tubby.

‘I don’t see why you should have been surprised, sir,’ said Jack, his eyes intent upon the delicate task. ‘You’ve had several good lickings coming to you, for a long time—if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Perhaps you think you owe me one,’ commented Tubby, painfully. ‘If so, why did you interfere?’

‘Because you are very important to neurological surgery, for one thing. And, besides, I want to know a lot of things that nobody else knows—but you.’ Jack deliberately took up the scissors and snipped the dangling ends from a suture.

Tubby opened his eyes and stared up into Jack’s impassive face.

‘That,’ he declared, solemnly, ‘is the most cold-blooded remark that was ever made—by one man to another—in the history of the world.’

Jack rethreaded the needle deftly and resumed his work on a fresh area.

‘Knowing how you feel, sir, on the subject of sympathy and sentimentality,’ said Jack, ‘I thank you. If our positions were reversed, you would have no very good reason for sparing my life.’

‘You do yourself an injustice, Brother Beaven,’ replied Tubby, squinting acknowledgment of the next stitch. ‘I can make good use of you.’

Jack regarded his patient with a new interest.

‘After what has happened today?’ he queried. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you would ever want to see me again.’

‘Perhaps not—if you were doing this as a personal favor. In that event I might feel at a disadvantage. But you have considered this a professional duty. You didn’t want to see me killed because I have information you need. And you are sewing me up for the same reason. I owe you nothing. If our positions were—as you say—reversed, I would have taken the same attitude toward you, I think. You will be of great service to me as an assistant here in the laboratory. I shouldn’t want to lose you.’

Jack sheared off a strip of adhesive from the spool and applied it to Tubby’s cheek.

‘I am glad to hear you say, sir, that our relations are to remain purely professional. Now that this is mutually understood, we can work together more efficiently.’

‘More efficiently than what?’ growled Tubby.

‘Than if you were afraid I might develop—by propinquity—some personal liking for you, sir. You may safely dismiss any such apprehension.’ Jack smoothed on the last strip of adhesive with firm fingers. ‘Want to sit up now? How does it feel?’

‘Good job,’ admitted Tubby.

‘Your car out in the lot?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll drive you home. You live at the University Club, don’t you? We’ll try to get you in without too much excitement.’

‘Thanks, Brother Beaven, but I don’t care to accept any further attentions. You may go on now about your business.’

‘I made the suggestion, sir, because we must keep this affair quiet. I don’t believe you can do it—by yourself. And I don’t want you worried over the chatter that might result if this got noised about.’

Tubby snarled.

‘It wouldn’t be any of your damn’ business if I was worried.’

‘Pardon me,’ contradicted Jack, ‘but it most certainly would be of personal concern and disadvantage to me if you were hectored by humiliating gossip. In that case you couldn’t possibly be at your best. Your mind would be distracted. You are a very important scientist and I want to have access to you at your fittest. Otherwise’—he tossed a negligent gesture that dismissed the whole matter—‘otherwise—I shouldn’t care two whoops in hell if everybody in the world heard about your squabble with this fellow—and laughed. Am I making myself clear?’

Tubby blinked thoughtfully for a minute and replied grimly, ‘In that case, you may drive me home.’ He tugged his keys out of his pocket with a hand that still trembled. ‘I’ll meet you—out in front.’

‘Think you can get downstairs by yourself, sir?’ asked Jack, doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you’d better come along with me—and let me steady you a bit. You’re pretty badly shaken, you know.’

‘Do as I tell you!’ barked Tubby.

‘Cigarette?’ Jack offered his opened pack.

‘I’ll smoke my own,’ growled Tubby, fumbling in his coat pocket.

‘Light?’ Jack struck a match.

Tubby shook his head.

Jack grinned—and left the room.

The problem of getting Tubby into the University Club without stirring up a lot of interest and curiosity was gratifyingly simple. At almost any other time this feat would have been impossible. But all the residents and guests were either at the Administration Building, mobilizing for the Commencement parade, or at the Auditorium awaiting it. To the doorman and the elevator boy it was necessary only to say that there had been a little accident—of no consequence.

‘No, no, no,’ spluttered Tubby, when the steward wanted to go up with him and make him comfortable. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll be quite all right. If anyone inquires, tell them—tell them I’m quite all right. But—no callers; no telephone messages; no anything, until I notify you.’

Having unloaded his responsibility, Jack was undecided what to do with the car. He didn’t know where Tubby kept it and disliked to inquire. It might bring on a flood of questions. So he drove on, turned the corner, and headed toward his rooming-house. Tony would probably be waiting there for further instructions.

Parking the coupé in front of the Doyle house, Jack went upstairs and met Tony in the hallway.

‘How’s your rambunctious friend by now?’ asked Jack.

‘Asleep,’ said Tony. ‘He got so noisy that I had to put him away. After all, we’re graduating and the procession is forming right now. We ought to be there. I haven’t toiled and starved for years to let some drunken bum keep me from——’

‘You and me—both,’ agreed Jack. ‘How much did you give him: enough to hold him until we get back?’

‘Bet your life,’ muttered Tony, ‘I gave him the needle. He ought to be contented until two o’clock.’

‘Hope you didn’t overdo it.’

‘No—only a quarter grain—and just a mere sliver more—to be generous.’

‘Come on, then. Have you told Lady Doyle?’

Tony nodded.

They went down to the car. Jack started the motor and they pushed off toward the Auditorium.

‘I’ve got to get some sort of message to Osgood—or somebody—accounting for Tubby’s absence,’ he said, anxiously. ‘Can’t quite decide how to do it. Anything to suggest? I asked Tubby what explanation he wanted given but he was still too unhooked to hatch a bright idea.’

‘Tell ’em he was injured slightly in an explosion,’ said Tony, helpfully. ‘That’ll be near enough the truth.’ They both chuckled at this and Jack agreed that it was a good thought.

‘I’ll write a note and pass it in to Osgood or Shane or someone,’ he said, suddenly relieved. ‘That will save questions and answers.’

‘Right!—and the old buzzard can fill in the details when he gets around to it,’ assisted Tony. ‘Gosh!—but Tubby took an awful lickin’! How many stitches did he need?’

‘I didn’t count ’em,’ said Jack, soberly, unwilling to share Tony’s sardonic glee. ‘Dozen or so, maybe.’

‘Did you have a good time?’ pressed Tony.

‘Can’t say that I did.’ Jack’s tone was serious, ‘I went to no bother to make it easy for him. But—Tubby was game. Tubby’s a brute, no doubt; but he can take it!’ There was a thoughtful silence. ‘Funny thing, Tony: I hate old Tubby like hell; but——’

‘Yeah—I know,’ grumbled Tony. ‘You hate him like hell but you think he’s wonderful. You hate him like hell but you follow him around like a dog—and you’re near enough like him to be his son. If I’d been in your place, I’d have sewed him up with Grade-A sash-cord—and then I’d have sewed his mouth shut!’

‘It’s the most important mouth on this campus,’ declared Jack. ‘You don’t have to like Tubby to admit that he’s a great man. Tubby’s sound—all the way through. I’m for everything he stands for, Tony. And I liked the way he took his beating—and his stitches.’

They parked Tubby’s big coupé a block from the Administration Building. Jack scribbled a note, and they proceeded to the main entrance where the faculties were assembling, bright with dear-bought colors and hot with the weight of their heavy robes. Finding the medical outfit, he pushed through the dignified crowd and handed his message to Shane. Then he hurried away to rejoin Tony and his class at the far end of the long hall where the graduating medics milled about, self-consciously blowing their ragged silk tassels out of their eyes and wishing they dared smoke a cigarette.

Viewed in prospect, this graduation day had ever been a beacon light shining brightly in Jack’s imagination. It would be—he had always felt—a stirring sensation to stand, at the summons of good old Prexy, and listen to the sonorous words, ‘By virtue of the authority vested in me—I confer upon you the degree—Doctor of Medicine.’ It promised to be a most impressive moment, to be faced with all the reverence of a candidate for holy orders. It was a bit disillusioning to find oneself pawing over the cheap black rags that lay tousled on the long tables, hunting for a gown that would reach below one’s knees and a mortar-board big enough to fit an adult skull. Tony looked so funny in his No. 6 hat that Jack laughed.

‘Don’t know how I’m going to keep the damn’ thing on,’ muttered Tony.

‘Vacuum pressure,’ suggested Jack, dryly. ‘That ought to hold it.’

In this mood they fell into line and marched to the Auditorium, well to the fore of the long parade—a full thousand—graduating from the various colleges. The big organ boomed forth Elgar’s ‘Pomp and Circumstance.’ Somebody made a prayer. Somebody made a speech. The diploma mill began to grind. At exactly twelve-ten Shane came to the front of the platform and said, ‘The candidates for the degree—Doctor of Medicine—will please rise.’ They rose. Prexy, a bit mellow, indulged himself to the extent of a brief, informal announcement before conferring the degree. They were entering upon one of the most noble, most exacting, most sacrificial of the learned professions. ‘It distresses me to announce,’ he went on, ‘that Doctor Forrester, who was to have been with us here today, has been hurt in a laboratory explosion. Early morning—Commencement Day—when, one would think, the Doctor might find himself at liberty from his professional duties, he goes to his laboratory to pursue his important experiments; and, in the course of his work, suffers injury. I commend to you this example of fidelity. You are about to set forth on a great adventure in the cause of human welfare. You are to be envied your high privilege: you are to remember that there is no discharge in this war.... And now—by virtue of the authority vested in me——’

And so—they were Doctors of Medicine. Tony had nudged Jack with his elbow when Prexy was decorating Tubby, in absentia, but Jack gave no sign that he thought the situation amusing.

After they had disposed of their battered finery in the Administration Building, Jack remarked that he must now put up Tubby’s car; so they telephoned to the University Club for instructions, drove the coupé to the public garage where it belonged, paused at a drug store for a sandwich and a glass of milk, and took a street-car to the Medical College. It was half-past one.

‘I say, Tony,’ said Jack, impulsively, ‘this fellow Carpenter left his car up there this morning. Maybe we’d better see what’s become of it.’

‘Think we’d recognize it?’

‘Probably. He’s from Philadelphia. Pennsylvania license, no doubt. If it’s locked, we can get his keys.’

The car was not locked. Apparently Carpenter had been too intent on his errand to exercise much prudence. It was indeed a very good-looking vehicle. Tony said he would do the driving, this time. Mrs. Doyle was rocking on the front verandah when they drew up. She grinned a little and remarked that they seemed to prefer riding to walking, today. Tony told her they had stolen the other car and traded it for this one, adding that when the police arrived she should tell them the robbers had left on foot.

‘You are a one,’ conceded Mrs. Doyle, amiably.

Proceeding to Jack’s room, they entered without knocking and found Carpenter engaged in producing a yawn of large dimensions. He raised up on one elbow and took stock of his guests. Then his brow clouded as he recognized Jack. It was apparent that he anticipated some more trouble.

‘Where am I?’ he asked, thickly.

Tony volunteered to clear things up.

‘You are at the residence of a Mrs. Doyle, who earns her living by housing medical men. I am Doctor Tony Wollason. My young friend, in whose bed you have been languishing, is Doctor Jack Beaven—a fine, upstanding, resolute fellow, whose acquaintance you made earlier in the day when you were presenting your former teacher with a bam on the snoot. Do you recall?’

Carpenter nodded, grinned tentatively, and glanced toward Jack, uncertain what rôle he was expected to play.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I was drunk.’

‘You were indeed,’ agreed Tony. ‘But—speaking unofficially, and for myself alone—I feel that you did a good day’s work. And if it is customary with you to perform such services while drunk, you certainly must be a very useful citizen when in your right mind.’

‘I’d rather not be kidded,’ said Carpenter, bristling a little. ‘It isn’t very funny.’

‘You have the right attitude, I think,’ said Jack, soberly. ‘You paid off Doctor Forrester, and now you wish you hadn’t. Well—you didn’t hurt him very badly, and we have contrived to keep the affair quiet. Nobody is going to know anything about it—unless you get drunk again and spill it.’ He leaned against the foot of the bed and extended an ominous index-finger toward Carpenter’s heavy eyes. ‘And—if you do—you’ll have me to settle with! As Wollason has indicated, you doubtless had cause for provocation and couldn’t be much blamed for taking your revenge. But—now that you’ve had it—let that be sufficient. I want to go on record with a promise: if I ever hear—next week or ten years from now—that you have told what happened this morning, I shall hunt you down and break your neck!’

‘That’s right, Mr. Carpenter,’ advised Tony, pretending earnestness. ‘The little tap he gave you was a mere free sample of the standard-size wallop he administers when he’s mad.’

‘Shut up!’ growled Jack. ‘This is no time for fooling.... Mr. Carpenter, your car is out in front of the house. If you want to go, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. If you want to use the telephone—or if there is anything we can do for you, we’ll be happy to oblige.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carpenter, sincerely. ‘You have been very kind. I’ll go now. You needn’t fear that I shall ever tell about this. I’m plenty ashamed of it.’

‘Well—I wouldn’t fret too much about it,’ drawled Jack. ‘Here: let me give you a hand with those trousers.’

Late in the afternoon Tony, rousing from a satisfactory two-hour nap, dressed with unusual care and sauntered over to the deserted Medical campus. Entering the dingy, echoing lower corridor of Lister Hall he lazily mounted the well-worn, creaking stairs to Tubby’s private laboratory where he knew Jack could be found making notes on some important cultures demanding frequent inspection.

The door was ajar, so Tony came in without knocking, crossed the room to the table where Jack sat hunched over the big Zeiss, and jabbed a thumb into his industrious friend’s short ribs. Detaching himself from his occupation, Jack glanced up, appraised the intruder with curiosity, and returned to his job at the microscope.

‘What’s up?’ he mumbled, absently. ‘Why do you appear in this festal raiment, Doctor Wollason? Are you to be Queen of the May?’

‘It had occurred to me, Professor,’ said Tony, ‘that considering we have had a long and eventful day we might go down into the bright lights for dinner. If this thought commends itself to you, and your conscience will permit a brief absence from this sweet-smelling garden of roses——’

‘Where had you thought we’d go, Doctor?’ asked Jack, without looking up.

‘How about the Livingstone? It builds up my personality amazingly to swagger through the lobby and sprawl in those big leather chairs.’

‘You mean the ones in the little enclosure marked “Reserved for Guests”? I never sit there. I’m a very proud and sensitive person.’

‘There’ll be no temptation to lounge in the lobby tonight. The place will be packed. Lots of little parties. Swarms of alumni. Much excitement. Sounds of revelry. Better come along. It will be good for us.’

Tony hadn’t been very hopeful. His face lighted when Jack replied negligently that the idea—if one considered its source—was surprisingly sound, adding that he would be ready to go in five minutes.

‘Of course you realize,’ he went on, ‘that I shall be obliged to return to the house for a more suitable costume. If the Livingstone is a-buzz with important social functions perhaps it may aid our personality development if we wear dinner clothes.’

‘Sorry,’ regretted Tony, ‘I haven’t a clean dress shirt.’

‘You shall have one of mine,’ said Jack, unctuously. ‘I shall give you the pleated one. I try to do one good deed every day, thus accumulating treasures in heaven.’ He closed his notebook, tossed it into the desk-drawer, and went to the closet for his coat.

‘Your manner of speech, Doctor Beaven,’ observed Tony, ‘increasingly reveals the influence of your irreverent master.’ Suddenly abandoning his persiflage, he added seriously, ‘It’s a solemn fact, Jack. You’re more like old Tubby every day; do you know it? I can remember the time when Tubby’s flippancies and sacrilegious flings annoyed you frightfully.’

‘Thanks for the sermon, Padre,’ drawled Jack, reaching for his hat. ‘If you will now pronounce the benediction, we’ll go and find you a shirt.’

‘That’s the sort of thing I mean; damn it!’ spluttered Tony. ‘You ought to snap out of that, old son, before it gets to be a habit. You’re going to be talking with all sorts of patients, pretty soon; people who haven’t anything left but their religion—and—and their sentiment—and they won’t like it.... I’m just telling you,’ he finished lamely. ‘People don’t like Tubby. They’re afraid of him. That’s one of the reasons. Better look out.’

Jack gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder as they moved toward the door.

‘Tell you what we’ll do, Tony,’ he said, teasingly. ‘We’ll hang out our shingle together. I’ll do the diagnosis and the treatment—and you go along to cheer ’em up.’

Tony made no reply until they were out in the air. It was evident that he hadn’t enjoyed this spoofing.

‘We’ll not talk any more about it,’ he said, glumly. ‘If you want to be just like Tubby—or even out-Tubby Tubby—go to it—and joy be with you.’

‘Wonder how the old boy’s getting on,’ reflected Jack, glad to drop the disquieting subject that had put a momentary constraint between them.

‘Perhaps you’d better call up and inquire,’ suggested Tony.

Jack chuckled.

‘He’d probably tell me to go to hell.’

‘It’s a very pleasant friendship,’ observed Tony. ‘Anybody can see that.’

‘I don’t want his friendship,’ growled Jack. ‘I want his skill, his information, his surgical technique. If you don’t mind my tooting my own horn for a few measures, Tony, I’m rather proud of the fact that I can learn valuable lessons from a man I don’t like.’

Tony was thoughtful for a moment before replying.

‘Well—before you canonize yourself for your magnanimity,’ he remarked, dryly, ‘you’d better make sure that you don’t like him. I’ve a notion that this animosity between you two silly asses is superficial.’

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ suggested Jack. ‘What other ideas have you?’

As Tony had predicted, they had found the Livingstone unusually active. Arriving at seven-thirty, they had made their way slowly through the noisy lobby where knots of old fellows, who had dined early, were spinning yarns and smoking big cigars. The crowded foyer was a-twitter with feminine voices; wives, no doubt, temporarily left on the beach by their learned spouses.

The congestion in the big dining-room had been somewhat relieved. A table for two was presently available.

‘Know those fellows?’ asked Tony, indicating the pair of diners nearest them. Jack glanced across and took brief stock of the neighbors, who were finishing their dessert; urbane, graying men in their late forties. He shook his head.

‘Do you?’ he asked. ‘Look like doctors.’

‘The one on this side is Woodbine,’ said Tony, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Buffalo. Pulmonary.’

Jack nodded.

‘I’ve heard of him. Good man. How did you recognize him?’

‘Someone pointed him out to me this morning. They’re talking shop, I think.’

Jack took up the menu card.

‘In the humble home where I was reared,’ he remarked, idly, ‘we were taught that it is impolite to eavesdrop or squat at keyholes. You listen to their conversation—and tell me what they are saying—and I’ll see what there is to eat.’

The waiter was at hand now and they gave him their orders. The man across from Doctor Woodbine was talking earnestly.

‘—And one of these days, Jimmy, there’s going to be a bomb dropped into camp. You’ll see! Sometimes I think the Medical College is almost as sad a place as a reformatory. You take the reformatory now. Sound enough in theory. The state rigs up an institution for the reclamation and development of mishandled boys; arranges for their schooling, sports, health; provides shops, amusements, movies. But the whole thing falls down because the guards and teachers and overseers take a cynical view of the project. The boys catch it. They contaminate one another.... Same thing goes for the medical school. Dry old devils on the faculty, each obsessed with his own little specialty. Nobody interested in the humanitarian aspects of the profession. Medics get to thinking it’s smart to be cold.... You take the situation—right here——’ He lowered his voice and leaned forward to mutter something inaudible to the attentive young pair near by.

Tony quizzed Jack’s eyes and grinned a little.

‘Ever talk with Cunningham about this?’ Woodbine was saying. ‘He has some pretty strong convictions. Fearless, too.... By the way, he’s making the principal speech tonight at the Ninety-Nine class reunion.’

‘I know it. Wish I could get in on it.’

Woodbine chuckled; picked up the dinner-check, brought out his wallet.

‘Too bad old Tubby’s laid up,’ he said. ‘They’re of the same class; aren’t they? They might put on quite a sprightly debate.’

The soup came on. Jack became immediately attentive to it. The older men pushed back their chairs and left the dining-room. Tony ventured a comment on what they had heard. ‘Most interesting,’ he observed.

‘Oh?’ said Jack, indifferently. ‘I didn’t find it so. Nothing new; is it? Same old complaint. Lot o’ these old has-beens—too damn’ lazy to keep up with the march of science—trying to defend their own indolence by making war on their betters.... Have an olive?’

The foyer was practically cleared when Jack and Tony came out of the dining-room. At the farther end of it a close-packed little crowd was assembled, evidently listening to something of considerable interest.

‘Shall we see what’s up?’ asked Jack. They strolled toward the overflow meeting that had mobilized about the half-open door of the ordinary. It was one of the occasions when they found it of advantage to be tall. Twenty-five or thirty grizzled old chaps—easily recognizable as doctors—were listening to a speech. This, agreed Jack and Tony, with an exchange of knowing nods, would be the Medical Class of Ninety-Nine; and the speaker, beyond all question, was Cunningham.

‘Want to stay?’ whispered Tony.

‘For a minute.’ Jack turned his head to listen sharply, his narrowed eyes aimlessly taking in the neighbors, more than half of whom were women. This would be natural, of course. It was probably the sort of speech that women would enjoy. A few feet away a very pretty girl in black satin attracted his curiosity. She wasn’t seeing anything, for her view was quite obstructed, but she was listening hard. Her head was tipped back a little, her eyes were raised, her lips were parted. It unquestionably was, thought Jack, the most beautiful head he had ever seen; hair so black it was midnight-blue, bobbed—and straight bangs that covered half of an unusually white forehead. Jade ear-drops. Shapely ears. He began to be ashamed of himself for staring, but the girl was so completely unaware of his scrutiny that he continued to observe her. She looked foreign. Didn’t seem to belong here. Longest lashes he had ever noticed. Their curling tips almost touched her brows: the brows were gracefully arched. He wasn’t hearing a word that this Doctor Cunningham was saying. He glanced out of the tail of his eye and found Tony raptly absorbed in the speech. Resolved to listen, he concentrated on the voice that sounded as if it spoke with deep feeling. Now he began to catch the drift of it.

‘Menaced by the threat of over-sophistication ...’

Jack’s eyes traveled slowly back to the attractive girl. He was not naturally disposed to invoice women’s physical proportions, but it occurred to him that a man would have to be a hardened atheist indeed if he could look at this girl and deny the existence of a benevolent Creator. He told himself he had no right to be gazing at her; but, after all, it was about the same as looking at a lovely picture.

Standing beside her was a woman probably old enough to be her mother, a quite distinguished figure, blonde, intelligent, poised. They seemed somehow to belong together. Jack wondered if they were related; tried to find some facial resemblance.

Suddenly the girl turned her head and looked him squarely in the eyes, surprising him in the act of offering her an admiration so utterly undisguised that his expression, he knew, was equivalent to a statement of his thoughts. It was exactly as if he had said, ‘I hope I’m giving you no offense, but you are the most adorable creature I ever saw.’

For an instant, she queried him with her wide eyes—a childlike question, as to say, ‘Why?’ And she couldn’t be blamed. She thought they had met—and she had forgotten—and he had remembered. He couldn’t turn away from that inquisitive pair of eyes with a confession that he had simply been staring. So—he ventured a smile and was promptly rewarded. Without the slightest suggestion of reticence or shyness or pretence of aloofness, she returned his smile and resumed her interest in the address. Jack’s heart skipped a beat. It was high time now, he felt, to attend to the meeting. Clearly—something had been said which had been of so much interest to her that she had thought he, too, had been impressed by it. That was why she had smiled, no doubt. That was why he had smiled, she may have thought. So—he listened.

You had to admit that the fellow was a convincing speaker, and meant every word he said. But—it was the same old stuff. Appeal to sentiment. Doctors must be altruists. Doctors must realize their responsibility to guide their patients into a safe and sound thought-life. Jack scowled. Tony leaned forward and whispered, ‘Want to go?’

He didn’t want to go, but he mighty well knew that Tony would be curious if he wanted to remain. He nodded—but did not stir.

‘No matter how discriminating we may be in our diagnoses,’ Cunningham was saying, ‘no matter how skillful we are with our surgery, how canny with our evaluation of X-ray pictures, how thorough our pathology, our usefulness to our generation swings on one axis. When the laboratory becomes of paramount importance, and physical healing becomes the all-in-all, we are shorn of our greatest strength; we have declined to accept our highest commission. We are living in a time of amazing progress in science, and no man of our vocation dares lose one step in this onward progress; but it is my solemn conviction that when all’s said that can be said about our duty to keep abreast of modern research and experiment, our job is primarily an affair of the heart. It may be tame and trite to say that love of humanity is the greatest thing in the world, but without that urge all the new patter of science is as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. I may have all faith in the amazing progress of our honored craft, our clever inventions, our efficient implements, our instruments of precision—but, if I have not love, I am nothing!’

It was too, too much. Jack turned to Tony and muttered, unfortunately loud enough to be overheard by the girl, ‘Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this love-bird.’

She looked up into his eyes with a baffled, beaten expression, as if he had struck her in the face. Instantly he repented of his impulsive rudeness. What if she was somehow related to this Cunningham? He wanted to apologize. For a second he lingered. Tony was pushing out through the crowd and he followed.

They fell into step.

‘What did you make of that girl?’ inquired Tony.

‘What girl?’ muttered Jack.

‘Oh, well—never mind,’ drawled Tony. ‘You must have been pretty hard hit if you can’t bear to speak of her to your closest playmate.’

‘Pardon me, Tony. I was still thinking about that sloppy speech. Did you ever—in all your life——’

Tony slipped his hand through Jack’s arm and slowed his steps.

‘You said to me, this afternoon, that it is a great thing when a man can learn lessons from people he dislikes; people who are antipathetic, antagonistic. I suggest that you try this out on someone else besides old Tubby. Perhaps you might learn something from Cunningham.’