"Wasn't he the man you told me of who had a bad nervous breakdown a few
years ago? The one Red had stay with you here until he got back his
nerve?"
"Yes; and he has been even a more brilliant operator ever since."
"I remember the whole story; there was a lot of thrill in it as you told
it. How Red made him rest and build up and then fairly forced him to
operate, against his will, to prove to him that he had got his nerve
back? Jove! Do you think that man wouldn't cross the ocean in a hurry if
he thought he could lift his finger to help our poor boy?"
King's speech had taken on such a fatherly tone of late that Ellen was
not surprised to hear him thus allude to his senior.
"Yes, Jack Leaver would do anything for Red, but I know Red would never
let us summon him from so far."
"Summon him from the antipodes--I would. And we don't have to consult
Red. His wish is enough. Leave it to me, Mrs. Burns; I'll take all the
responsibility."
She smiled at him, feeling that she must not express the very natural
and unwelcome thought that to call a friend from so far away was to
admit that the situation was desperate. Burns had said many times that
Doctor Van Horn was using the very latest and most acceptable methods
for his relief, and that his confidence in him was absolute. None the
less she knew that the very sight of John Leaver's face would be like
that of a shore light to a ship groping in a heavy fog.
Within twenty-four hours Jordan King came dashing in to wave a cable
message before her. "Read that, and thank heaven that you have such
friends in the world."
At a glance her eyes took in the pregnant line, and the first tears she
had shed leaped to her eyes and misted them, so that she had to wipe
them away to read the welcome words again.
We sail Saturday. Love to Doctor and Mrs. Burns.
LEAVER.
A week later, Burns, waking from an uneasy slumber, opened his eyes upon
a new figure at his bedside. For a moment he stared uncomprehending into
the dark, distinguished face of his old friend, then put out his
uninjured hand with a weak clutch.
"Are you real, Jack?" he demanded in a whisper.
"As real as that bedpost. And mighty glad to see you, my dear boy. They
tell me the worst is over, and that you're improving. That's worth the
journey to see."
"You didn't come from--England?"
"Of course I did. I'd come from the end of the world, and you know it!
Why in the name of friendship didn't some
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