er."

"It's incredible."

"Exactly; but it's true. The last patient was a laborer. He left a
family. I've sent them money from time to time. I used to sit and think
about the children he left, and what would become of them. The ironic
part of it was that, for all that had happened, I was busier all the
time. Men were sending me cases from all over the country. It was either
stay and keep on working, with that chance, or--quit. I quit." "But if
you had stayed, and taken extra precautions--"

"We'd taken every precaution we knew."

Neither of the men spoke for a time. K. stood, his tall figure outlined
against the window. Far off, in the children's ward, children were
laughing; from near by a very young baby wailed a thin cry of protest
against life; a bell rang constantly. K.'s mind was busy with the
past--with the day he decided to give up and go away, with the months of
wandering and homelessness, with the night he had come upon the Street
and had seen Sidney on the doorstep of the little house.

"That's the worst, is it?" Max Wilson demanded at last.

"That's enough."

"It's extremely significant. You had an enemy somewhere--on your
staff, probably. This profession of ours is a big one, but you know its
jealousies. Let a man get his shoulders above the crowd, and the pack
is after him." He laughed a little. "Mixed figure, but you know what I
mean."

K. shook his head. He had had that gift of the big man everywhere, in
every profession, of securing the loyalty of his followers. He would
have trusted every one of them with his life.

"You're going to do it, of course."

"Take up your work?"

"Yes."

He stirred restlessly. To stay on, to be near Sidney, perhaps to stand
by as Wilson's best man when he was married--it turned him cold. But he
did not give a decided negative. The sick man was flushed and growing
fretful; it would not do to irritate him.

"Give me another day on it," he said at last. And so the matter stood.

Max's injury had been productive of good, in one way. It had brought the
two brothers closer together. In the mornings Max was restless until
Dr. Ed arrived. When he came, he brought books in the shabby bag--his
beloved Burns, although he needed no book for that, the "Pickwick
Papers," Renan's "Lives of the Disciples." Very often Max world doze
off; at the cessation of Dr. Ed's sonorous voice the sick man would stir
fretfully and demand more. But because he listened to everything witho