“Why not?”
“Good Lord, it’ll queer us—we’ll never get over it.”
“Think of the papers,” said Schley, plucking at his glove.
“We can fix it up with the doctor.”
At this moment Dr. Burke joined them, quiet, businesslike, anxious.
“She has all the symptoms of a bad attack of appendicitis. There’s only one thing to do; get her to the hospital at once. I’ll get my hat and join you.”
“Drive to—drive to the hospital?” said Troutman, with a gasp, “right through the whole city, right in the face of everyone?”
“Don’t be a fool, Dink,” said Schley nervously. “We’ll fix up Burke; we’ll give him a hundred to take her and shut up.”
Stover, too, saw the danger and the inevitable scandal. He saw, also, that they were no longer men as he had thought. The thin veneer had disappeared—they were boys, terrified, aghast at a crisis beyond their strength.
“You’re right, it would queer you,” he said abruptly. “Clear out—both of you.”
“And you?”
“You’re going to stay?” said Schley. Neither could face his eyes.
“Clear out, I tell you!”
When Burke came running down the steps he looked at Stover in surprise.
“Hello, where are your friends?”
“They had other engagements,” said Dink grimly. “All ready.”
“I’ve seen your face before,” said Dr. Burke, climbing in.
“I’m Stover.”
“Dink Stover of the eleven?”
“Yes, Dink Stover of the eleven,” said Stover, his face hardening. “Where do I drive?”
“Do you want to go quietly?” said Dr. Burke, with a look of sympathetic understanding.
From behind the girl, writhing, began to moan:
“Oh, Doctor—Doctor—I can’t stand it—I can’t stand it.”
“What’s the quickest way?” said Stover.
“Chapel Street,” said the doctor.
Stover turned the horses’ heads into the thoroughfare, looking straight ahead, aware soon of the men who saw him in the full light of the day, driving through the streets of New Haven in such inexplicable company. And suddenly at the first turn he came face to face with another carriage in which were Jean Story and her mother.
XXVI
When Stover returned to his rooms, it was long after supper.
“Where the deuce have you been?” said Hungerford, looking up from his books.
“Went for a drive, got home late,” said Stover shortly. He filled the companionable pipe, and sank into the low armchair, which Regan had broken for comfort. Something in his abrupt procedure caused Bob Story to look over at Regan with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows.
“Got this psychology yet?” said Hungerford, to try him out.
“No,” said Stover.
“Going to get it?”
“No.”
“The thinghood of a thing is its indefinable somewhatness,” said Hungerford, with another slashing attack on the common enemy, to divert Stover’s attention. “What in the name of peanuts does that stuff mean?”
Dink, refusing to be drawn into conversation, sat enveloped in smoke clouds, his eyes on the clock.
“Hello, I forgot,” said Story presently. “I say, Dink, Troutman and Schley were around here hallooing for you.”
“They were, eh?”
“About an hour ago. Wanted to see you particularly. Said they’d be around again.”
“I see.”
At this moment from below came a bellow:
“Oh, Dink Stover—hello above there!”
“That’s Troutman now,” said Joe Hungerford.
Stover went to the window, flinging it up.
“Well, who’s there?”
“Troutman and Chris Schley. I say, Dink, we’ve got to see you. Come on down.”
“Thanks, I haven’t the slightest desire to see you now or at any other time,” said Stover, who closed the window and resumed his seat, eyeing the clock.
His three friends exchanged troubled glances, and Regan began to whistle to himself, but no questions were asked. At nine o’clock Stover rose and took his hat.
“I’m going out. I may be back late,” he said, and went down the stairs.
“What the devil?” said Hungerford, closing his book.
“He’s in some scrape,” said Regan ruthfully.
“Oh, Lord, and just at this time, too,” said Story.
Stover went rapidly towards the hospital. The girl had been operated on immediately, and the situation was of the utmost seriousness. He had been told to come back at nine. When he arrived he found Muriel Stacey already in the waiting-room, her eyes heavy with frightened weeping. He looked at her curiously. All suggestion of the provoking impertinence and the surface allurement was gone. Under his eyes was nothing but an ignorant boor, stupid and hysterical before the awful fact of death.
“What’s the news?” he asked.
“Oh, Mr. Stover, I don’t know. I can’t get anything out of them,” the woman said wildly. “Oh, do you think she’s going to die?”
“Of course not,” he said gruffly. “See here, where’s her family?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t they live here?”
“They’re in Ohio somewhere, I think. I don’t know. Ask the doctor, won’t you, Mr. Stover? He’ll tell you something.”
He left her, and, making inquiries, was met by a young intern, immaculate and alert, who was quite communicative to Dink Stover of the Yale eleven.
“She’s had a bad case of it; appendix had already burst. You got her here just in time.”
“What’s the outlook?”
“Can’t tell. She came out of the anaesthetic all right.” He went into a technical discussion of the dangers of blood poisoning, concluding: “Still, I should say her chances were good. It depends a good deal on the resistance. However, I think your friend’s family ought to be notified.”
Stover did not notice the “your friend,” nor the look which the doctor gave him.
“She’s here alone as far as I can find out,” he said. “Poor little devil. I’ll call round about midnight.”
“No need,” said the doctor briskly, “nothing’ll develop before tomorrow.”
Stover sent the waiting girl home somewhat tranquilized, and, finding a florist’s shop open, left an order to be sent in to the patient the first thing in the morning. Then, thoroughly exhausted by his sudden contact with all the nervous fates of the hospital, he walked home and heavily to bed.
The next morning as he went to his eating-joint with Regan and Hungerford, the newsboy, who had his papers ready, gave them to him with a hesitating look. All at once Joe Hungerford swore mightily.
“Now what’s wrong, Joe?” said Regan in surprise.
“Nothing,” said Hungerford hastily, but almost
