through or I wouldn’t, and the odds were—well, I didn’t say much. The old lady’s had a lot of trouble. But now, with THIS under my pillow for her, I’ve got a right to ask. I’ll take a chance, if you will.”
“It’s only a chance, Jack.”
“I know that. But lie here and watch these soaks off the street. Old, a lot of them, and gettin’ well to go out and starve, and—My God! Mr. Le Moyne, they can walk, and I can’t.”
K. drew a long breath. He had started, and now he must go on. Faith in himself or no faith, he must go on. Life, that had loosed its hold on him for a time, had found him again.
“I’ll go over you carefully tomorrow, Jack. I’ll tell you your chances honestly.”
“I have a thousand dollars. Whatever you charge—”
“I’ll take it out of my board bill in the new house!”
At four o’clock that morning K. got back from seeing Joe off. The trip had been without accident.
Over Sidney’s letter Joe had shed a shamefaced tear or two. And during the night ride, with K. pushing the car to the utmost, he had felt that the boy, in keeping his hand in his pocket, had kept it on the letter. When the road was smooth and stretched ahead, a gray-white line into the night, he tried to talk a little courage into the boy’s sick heart.
“You’ll see new people, new life,” he said. “In a month from now you’ll wonder why you ever hung around the 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.
