But the surgeon, the next morning, shook his head peremptorily1. His patient had been tampered2 with, and was worse—it was a critical case—all the skill and science of modern surgery involved in it... the brain had barely escaped—by a breath, it might be—no one could tell ... but the boy must be kept quiet. There must be no more agitation3. They must wait for full recovery. Above all—nothing that recalled the accident. Let nature take her own time—and the boy might yet speak out clearly and tell them what they wanted—otherwise the staff could not be responsible.
It was to Philip Harris himself that the decree was given, sitting in the consulting-room of the white hospital—looking about him with quick eyes. He had taken out his cheque-book and written a sum that doubled the efficiency of the hospital, and the surgeon had thanked him quietly and laid it aside. “Everything is being done for the boy, Mr. Harris, that we can do. But one cannot foresee the result. He may come through with clear mind—he may remember the past—he may remember part of it—but not the part you want. But not a breath must disturb him—that is the one thing clear—and it is our only chance.” His eyes were gentle and keen, and Philip Harris straightened himself a little beneath them. The cheque, laid one side, looked suddenly small and empty... and the great stockyards were a blur4 in his thought. Not all of them together, it seemed, could buy the skill that was being given freely for a Greek waif, or hurry by a hair’s breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that held his life.
“Tell me if there is anything I can do,” he said. He had risen and was facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy—with his hat in his hand.
The surgeon returned the look. “There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris. This, for instance—” He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded it in slow fingers. “It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the boy—there will be things later—for the boy—”
“Private room?” suggested the great man.
“No—the ward5 is better. It gives him interests—keeps his mind off himself and keeps him from remembering things. But when he can be moved, he must be in the country—good food, fresh air, things to amuse him—he’s a jolly little chap!” The surgeon laughed out. “Oh, we shall bring him through.” He added it almost gaily6. “He is so sane—he is a Greek!”
Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. “How long before he can be moved?” he asked bluntly.
The surgeon paused—“two weeks—three—perhaps—I must have him under my eye—I can’t tell—” He looked at the great man keenly. “What he really needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday—to talk with him—or kee............