“I've sent for Dr. Mitchell.”
“Very well, sir.”
“He'll be here in quarter of an hour.”
“Very well, sir.”
He hated the woman. He would like to take her thin, bony neck and wring it.
He went over to the cot and looked down. The little body outlined under the clothes was so helpless, the little hands, clenched now, were so tiny; he was breathing very fast and little sounds came from between his teeth, little struggling cries.
Peter saw that moment when Stephen the Elder had held Stephen the younger aloft in his arms. The Gods appear to us only when we claim to challenge their exultation. They had been challenged at that moment. . . . Young Stephen against the Gods! Surely an unequal contest!
II
Dr. Mitchell came and instantly the struggle was at its height. Appendicitis. As they stood over the cot the boy awoke and began to cry a little, turned his head from side to side as though to avoid the light, beating with his hands on the counterpane.
“I must send for a nurse at once,” Dr. Mitchell said.
“Everything is in your hands,” Peter answered.
“You'd better go down and have something to eat.”
The little cry came trembling and pitiful, driving straight into Peter's heart.
“Temperature 105—pretty bad.” Mitchell, who was a stout, short man with red cheeks, grey eyes and the air of an amiable Robin, was transformed now into something sharp, alert, official.
Peter caught his arm—
“It's all right?. . . you don't think—?”
The man turned and looked at him with eyes so kind that Peter trembled.
“Look here, we've got to fight it, Westcott. I ought to have been called hours ago. But keep your head and we'll pull the child through. . . . Better go down and have something to eat. You'll need it.”
