“Why, my man,” said the doctor, “you certainly are in great danger, and if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do.”
“That’s a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not, doctor?” replied Spicer.
“I fear, my good man, there is very little.”
“Tell me plainly, sir, if you please,” replied Spicer; “is there any?”
“I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it’s unpleasant to say so, but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth.”
“Well, sir, that is honest. May I ask you how long I may expect to live?”
“That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more. Would you like the chaplain to come and see you?”
“Thank you, sir; when I do I’ll send for him.”
The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients. I was silent. At last Spicer spoke.
“Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me. Somehow or another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself, the pain has been so dreadful. Well, we can die but once, and I shall die game.”