He sat by, smiling, while Allison poured the varying contents of the drug store on the ground below and listened for the sound of breaking glass when the bottle swiftly followed the last gurgling drop.  When all had been disposed of, the nurse took out the table, and the young man smiled expansively at Allison.

“Feel better?”

“I—­think so.”

“Good.  Now, look here.  How much does your hand mean to you?”

“How much does it mean?” repeated Allison, pitifully.  “It means life, career—­everything.”

“Enough to make a fight for it then, I take it.”

Dull colour surged by waves into Allison’s white face.  “What do you mean?” he asked, in a broken voice.  “Tell me what you mean!”

But the young man was removing his coat.  “Hot day,” he was saying, “and the young lady won’t mind my negligee as long as the braces don’t show.  Strange—­how women hate nice new braces.  Say,” he said to the nurse as she returned, “get somebody to go up to the station and bring down my trunk, will you?”

“Trunk?” echoed Allison.

“Sure,” smiled the young man.  “My instructions were to stay if I saw any hope, so I brought along my trunk.  I’m always looking for a chance to hope, and I’ve discovered that it’s one of the very best ways to find it.”

The nurse had hastened away upon her errand.  The new element in the atmosphere of the sick room had subtly affected her, also.

“Don’t fence,” Allison was saying, huskily.  “I’ve asked so much that I’ve quit asking.”

The young man nodded complete understanding.  “I know.  The moss-backs sit around and look wise, and expect to work miracles on a patient who doesn’t know what they’re doing and finally gets the impression that he isn’t considered fit to know.  Far be it from me to disparage the pioneers of our noble profession, but I’m modest enough to admit that I need help, and the best help, every time, comes from the patient himself.”

He drew up his chair beside the bed and sat down.  Allison’s eager eyes did not swerve from his face.

“Mind you,” he went on, “I don’t promise anything—­I can’t, conscientiously.  In getting a carriage out of the mud, more depends upon the horse than on the driver.  Nature will have to do the work—­I can’t.  All I can do is to guide her gently.  If she’s pushed, she gets balky.  Maybe there’s something ahead of her that I don’t see, and there’s no use spurring her ahead when she’s got to stop and get her breath before she can go up hill.

“That hand can’t heal itself without good blood to draw upon, and good material to make bone and nerve of, so we’ll begin to stoke up, gradually, and meanwhile, I’ll camp right here and see what’s doing.  And if you can bring yourself to sort of—­well, sing at your work, you know, it’s going to make the job a lot easier.”

Allison drew a long breath of relief.  “You give me hope,” he said.