But, even while he spoke, he knew there was no need for Opdyke's prompt reply,—
"I fancy it never would come to that between the two of us. We've faced too many bad half-hours together. If only I could—"
Whittenden understood. He rose, thrust his hands into his pockets, turned away and tramped across the room.
"You always have, old man; now more than ever. And, every now and then, we parsons need it, need to be plucked out of our studies and set down face to face with life. It's because I'm owing you so much that I'd like to square up the account a little. Reed, I'm glad you sent for me, no matter if the reason was an ugly one."
And then, quite of his own initiative, he went away in search of Ramsdell. All at once there had swept over him the memory of their talk, the night before, and the memory overwhelmed him with its tragedy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Yes, he sent for me, about nine o'clock." Doctor Keltridge, sitting in the window seat beside Opdyke, swung his heels like a boy, in gleeful recollection. "Of course, it was sotto voce, as it were, for he's the king pin of the Christian Science row, and it never would do to let it get about. When I got there, I found him all doubled up with asthma, wheezing like a grampus. 'Damn it, man,' he said, as soon as he caught a glimpse of me; 'I've been praying since six o'clock, and I'm getting worse, every minute! Give me something, quick, or I shall die.'"
And then the doctor went off into a roar of laughter over this latest victory of medicine.
"He came out all right?"