On the evening of the shooting at Schwitter’s,
there had been a late operation at the hospital.
Sidney, having duly transcribed her lecture notes
and said her prayers, was already asleep when she received
the insistent summons to the operating-room.
She dressed again with flying fingers. These
night battles with death roused all her fighting blood.
There were times when she felt as if, by sheer will,
she could force strength, life itself, into failing
bodies. Her sensitive nostrils dilated, her
brain worked like a machine.
That night she received well-deserved praise.
When the Lamb, telephoning hysterically, had failed
to locate the younger Wilson, another staff surgeon
was called. His keen eyes watched Sidney—felt
her capacity, her fiber, so to speak; and, when everything
was over, he told her what was in his mind.
“Don’t wear yourself out, girl,”
he said gravely. “We need people like
you. It was good work to-night—fine
work. I wish we had more like you.”
By midnight the work was done, and the nurse in charge
sent Sidney to bed.
It was the Lamb who received the message about Wilson;
and because he was not very keen at the best, and
because the news was so startling, he refused to credit
his ears.
“Who is this at the ’phone?”
“That doesn’t matter. Le Moyne’s
my name. Get the message to Dr. Ed Wilson at
once. We are starting to the city.”
“Tell me again. I mustn’t make a
mess of this.”
“Dr. Wilson, the surgeon, has been shot,”
came slowly and distinctly. “Get the staff
there and have a room ready. Get the operating-room
ready, too.”
The Lamb wakened then, and roused the house.
He was incoherent, rather, so that Dr. Ed got the
impression that it was Le Moyne who had been shot,
and only learned the truth when he got to the hospital.
“Where is he?” he demanded. He liked
K., and his heart was sore within him.
“Not in yet, sir. A Mr. Le Moyne is bringing
him. Staff’s in the executive committee
room, sir.”
“But—who has been shot? I thought
you said—”
The Lamb turned pale at that, and braced himself.
“I’m sorry—I thought you understood.
I believe it’s not—not serious.
It’s Dr. Max, sir.”
Dr. Ed, who was heavy and not very young, sat down
on an office chair. Out of sheer habit he had
brought the bag. He put it down on the floor
beside him, and moistened his lips.
“Is he living?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I gathered that Mr. Le
Moyne did not think it serious.”
He lied, and Dr. Ed knew he lied.
The Lamb stood by the door, and Dr. Ed sat and waited.
The office clock said half after three. Outside
the windows, the night world went by—taxi-cabs
full of roisterers, women who walked stealthily close
to the buildings, a truck carrying steel, so heavy
that it shook the hospital as it rumbled by.
