A few minutes after four o’clock that morning as McGuire lay there sprawled upon his desk, the phone rang again. And again he made no move to answer it: he just sat there, sprawled out on his fat elbows, staring stupidly ahead. Creasman came in presently, as the telephone continued to disturb the silence of the hospital with its electric menace, and this time, without a glance at him, answered.

It was Luke Gant. At four o’clock his father had had another h?morrhage, he had lost consciousness, all efforts to awaken him had failed, they thought he was dying.

The nurse listened carefully for a moment to Luke’s stammering and excited voice, which was audible across the wire even to McGuire. Then, with a troubled and uncertain glance toward the doctor’s sprawled and drunken figure, she said quietly:

“Just a minute. I don’t know if the doctor is in the hospital. I’ll see if I can find him.”

Putting her hand over the mouth-piece, keeping her voice low, she spoke urgently to McGuire:

“It’s Luke Gant. He says his father has had another h?morrhage and that they can’t rouse him. He wants you to come at once. What shall I tell him?”

He stared drunkenly at her for a moment, and then, waving his finger at her in a movement of fat impatience, he mumbled thickly:

“Nothing to do. . . . No use . . . . Can’t be stopped. . . . People expect miracles. . . . Over. . . . Done for. . . . Tell him I’m not here . . . gone home,” he muttered, and sprawled forward on the desk again.

Quietly, coolly, the nurse spoke into the phone again:

“The doctor doesn’t seem to be here at the hospital, Mr. Gant. Have you tried his house? I think you may find him at home.”

“No, G-g-g-god-damn it!” Luke fairly screamed across the wire. “He’s not at home. I’ve already t-t-tried to get him here. . . . N-n-n-now you look here, Miss Creasman!” Luke shouted angrily. “You c-c-can’t kid me: I know where he is — He’s d-d-down there at the hospital right now — wy-wy-wy — stinkin’ drunk! You t-t-tell him, G-g-g-god-damn his soul, that if he d-d-doesn’t come, wy-wy-wy — P-p-p-papa’s in a bad way and and and f-f-frankly, I fink it’s a rotten shame for McGuire to act this way, wy-wy-wy after he’s b-b-been Papa’s doctor all these years. F-f-frankly, I do!”

“Nothing to be done,” mumbled McGuire. “No use. . . . All over.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Gant,” said Creasman quietly. “I’ll let the doctor know as soon as he comes in!”

“C-c-c-comes in, hell!” Luke stammered bitterly. “I’m c-c-comin’ down there myself and g-g-get him if I have to wy-wy-wy d-d-drag him here by the s-s-scruff of his neck!” And he hung up the receiver with a bang.

The nurse put the phone down on the desk, and turning to McGuire, said:

“He’s raving. He says if you don’t go, he’ll come for you and get you himself. Can’t you pull yourself together enough to go? If you can’t drive the car, I’ll send Joe along to drive it for you.” (Joe was a negro orderly in the hospital.)

“What’s the use?” McGuire mumbled thickly, a little angrily. “What the hell do these people expect, anyway? . . . I’m a doctor, not a miracle man. . . . The man’s gone, I tell you . . . the whole gut and rectum is eaten away . . . he can’t live over a day or two longer at the most. . . . It’s cruelty to prolong it: why the hell should I try to?”

“All right,” she said resignedly. “Do as you please. Only, he’ll probably be here for you himself in a few minutes. And since they do feel that w............