else. He guesses
and experiments, treats symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing
and experimenting all along the line. But the knife, boy!" Here the
doctor rose and began to pace the floor. "There's no guess in the knife
point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at
that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflammation,' said the
physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough. The boy died. At the
postmortem"--here the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice
almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy--"at the post-mortem the
knife discovered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The discovery
was made too late." These were the days before appendicitis became
fashionable. "Now, listen to me," continued the doctor, even more
impressively, "I believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment
might have saved that boy's life! A slight incision an inch or two long,
the removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and in a couple of
weeks the boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I'd give my life to be a great
surgeon! But He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these," and he held
up a coarse, heavy hand; "I haven't the touch. And besides, He brought
me my wife, the best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which
settled the surgeon business forever. Now listen, boy! You've got the
nerve--plenty of men have that--but you've also got the fingers, which
few men have. With your touch and your steady nerve and your mechanical
ingenuity--I've seen your machines, boy--you can be a great surgeon!
But you must know your subject. You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink
bones and muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything else aside!"
he cried, waving his great hands. "And remember!"--here his voice took
a solemn tone--"let nothing share your heart with your knife! Leave the
women alone. A woman has no business in science. She distracts the mind,
disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers, besides paralysing the
finances. For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at least till
you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and all my spare time
at your command." At these words the boy's face, which had caught the
light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, fell.

"Well, what now?" cried the doctor, reading his face like a book.

"I have no right to take your books or your time."

The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The boy also rose and faced
him, almost as if expecting a