“Finish him,” he said. “I’ll have Miss Kirby down from Albany to-morrow morning. She’s the only nurse I know who likes cases of this sort—eats ’em up. Can’t be too bad for her. Only thing she balks at is a sick millionaire. Abnormal woman, but a rattling good nurse.”
“Couldn’t I—” began Pegeen. She looked woefully disappointed.
“You couldn’t.” The doctor was firm. “Not until after he’s over the ridge one way or the other. Then there’ll be enough for you and anybody that applies. Just shows what a frost virtue is. I’ve had highly respectable patients neglected and here’s a spirited contest for the privilege of taking care of Ezra, who’s as worthless a customer as you’d find in a day’s journey.”
“Oh, Doctor, he’s so sick!” Pegeen was distressed, shocked.
“But he’s not dead. It’s only after they’re dead that we can’t speak ill of them. I’m not going to let Ezra die, so I feel perfectly free to tell the truth about him. There’s the medicine. Nothing much to do at this stage of the game. I’ll be back in an hour and bring a tank of oxygen down to have it handy. Don’t you fret, Peggy. He’s going to rob many a hen-roost yet.”
He went away, driving in utter defiance of the speed laws. John and Ellen drove off home, and Peg and Archibald sat down in two of the rickety chairs near the bed upon which the transformed Ezra lay, breathing heavily.
“This, Miss Pegeen O’Neill, is what comes of neighboring,” said Archibald.
“Yes; isn’t it splendid?” Peg was important, shiny-eyed.
“Well, come to think of it, I don’t know but what it is,” admitted the man.
“Doesn’t he look different when he’s clean?”—Pegeen lowered her voice to sick-room pitch, but she was too excited to keep still and Ezra would not hear.