“You lie! Don’t I know—?”
“I cannot thrash you in the anteroom of death,” answered the doctor, “and I take your sorrow into consideration. But what I just said is true. Miss Shevlin has sustained internal injuries which cannot but prove fatal. Nothing but her yearning to see you again has kept her alive as long as this. It is best to be frank.”
Caleb was eyeing him stupidly. At last he turned to Jack.
“Did you send those tel’grams?” he asked; and his voice was dead.
“Yes, sir,” replied Hawarden. “I sent them, but—”
“But I told him it was useless,” put in the doctor. “There is not a fighting chance. She will not come out of this morphia stupor. The moisture on her forehead is what you laymen would call the ‘death-sweat.’ She—”
“You lie!” broke forth Caleb, beside himself. “You may fool women and children by your damn profess’nal airs, but it don’t go down with me. I’ve seen folks die. An’ they ain’t sane an’ cheerful an’ bright like Dey Shevlin was just now. You quacks make a livin’ by throwin’ med’cines you don’t half understand into systems you don’t understand at all. As long’ it’s a triflin’ case of mumps or headache, you look all-fired wise an’ write out p’scriptions in a furren language to hide your ignor’nce. But when anything’s reely the matter you’re as helpless as a drunken longshoreman. If the patient dies from your blunders an’ from the dope you throw hap-hazard into him, he ‘hadn’t a chance from the start.’ If he gets well in spite of you, it’s your almighty skill that ‘pulled him through.’ When a feller gets colic an’ you call it appendicitis, what do you do? You don’t rest till you get a chance to stick your knives into him. If he gets well, it’s a ‘mir’cle of modern surgery.’ If he croaks, the ‘op’ration was a success,’—only the patient got peevish an’ died. There never yet was an appendicitis case where the quack in charge didn’t say there’ a been ‘no hope if the op’ration had been delayed another two hours.’ Oh, you’re a fine lot of fakers an’ gold-brick con men, you doctors! An’ now you say my little girl’s dyin’! God damn your soul, I tell you again you lie!”
The doctor picked up his black bag without replying and moved toward the outer door.
“Where you goin’?” demanded Caleb.
“I’m going home,” was the stiff retort. “I drop this case. I do not care to be associated longer with a wild beast like—”