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.”
