Dr. Oliver was a man of few words. He had not time for more, for his practice was one of the largest in the city. He glanced at West’s pain-drawn face, listened to his few words of explanation, felt his side with practiced hands, and delivered his opinion in a few terse words. “Appendicitis,” he said quickly, “and an aggravated case. You must undergo an operation at once.”
Somehow or other West felt a sudden sense of relief at these words. After all, an operation for appendicitis was not such a serious matter. He knew any number of people who had been through it. “I am stopping at a hotel,” he observed. “I do not live in Denver. I suppose I shall be obliged to go to a hospital at once.”
“By all means.” The doctor turned to his desk telephone and called a number. “I will arrange for an operation at the City Hospital, if you wish it.”
“Thank you,” replied West, “I do wish it.”
The doctor held a short conversation over the telephone. “I presume you can go to the hospital at once?” he inquired.
West nodded.
“I will send for a carriage,” the doctor went on, as he drew a thermometer from a leather case and placed it beneath West’s tongue. “Your case is an acute one, Mr. West, and we cannot afford to lose any time.” He again spoke sharply over the telephone, then, bidding West bare his arm, gave him a quick hypodermic injection which diffused a blessed sense of relief through every nerve of his pain-racked body. He sank upon a couch, and awaited the coming of the carriage. His thoughts were no longer gloomy. He seemed to be floating in a sea of warmth, which caressed him pleasurably and filled him with a delicious feeling of well-being. Even the dull-figured flowers on the walls of the doctor’s office seemed alive, and glowing with color. The coming of the carriage seemed unimportant; nothing, in fact, seemed to matter, now that the gnawing of that terrible pain had left him.
It was Wednesday afternoon when West arrived at the City Hospital, and within two hours thereafter the operation was over, and he slowly returned to a sense of the reality of life, with a feeling of deadly nausea, and the pain once more throbbing in his right side. Over him bent a clear-eyed nurse, sympathetic as to his comfort, offering him a glass of water. Presently a physician joined her. West looked at them without interest and from the jumbled impressions of the day once more passed into a dreamless sleep.
It was in the early morning that he first began to think of Edith. Her letters would be awaiting him at his hotel. He must send for them—he must write to her and tell her of all that had happened. He felt that she would be alarmed at not hearing from him, for, until the day before, he had not failed to post a letter to her each night, telling her of the events of the day.
In response to his repeated requests, the nurse sent a messenger boy for his mail, and, when the latter returned, she read him Edith’s letter at his request. He could not read it himself—he lay flat on his back, in semi-darkness, and even the slight effort of moving his hands seemed to send innumerable sharp quivers of pain through every portion of his body.