“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.”
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.”
It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered
the screens to be set around the bed, K. who drew
the coverings smooth and folded the boy’s hands
over his breast.
The violin-player stood by uncertainly.
“How very young he is! Was it an accident?”
“It was the result of a man’s damnable
folly,” said K. grimly. “Somebody
always pays.”
