"But then, you know, Mr. McGrath is a very peculiar man," she said, as if this condoned all his faults.
Presently, Eulalie returned, knocking violently at my door, and assured me that every cent of my dollar was now burning brightly, where it would do most good, and informed me that the two ladies were waiting for me.
"It is time to go, Dave," said Frieda, who seemed to be making hard weather of her efforts at composure. "Frances is all ready and Baby Paul is sleeping. Eulalie will take the best care of him. Come along!"
And so we trooped off to Dr. Porter's office. He was waiting for us, clad in an immaculate white jacket. Frances entrusted her hat to Frieda and sat down quietly on a chair in a dark corner. Porter drew down some blinds, whereby we were plunged in semi-darkness, and turned on a powerful light which strongly illumined a small circle of his patient's face. I was sitting down on a sofa, rather close to Frieda. A few moments later we were leaning on one another for support. One of her good fat hands was trembling a little, in mine, which may possibly have been similarly affected.
"We'll take lots of time," I heard Porter say. "Yes, this is novocaine. Open wide now—breathe through your mouth—slowly. That's very good—now rest a little. Once again, I want to get a thorough anæsthesia—another little rest—we are in no hurry. Don't be afraid. You have the finest throat to work on I ever saw, a superb control over it. That comes from all the training I have given you—now the last touch of novocaine—that's all right—you'll feel nothing—I'm very sure."
Frieda was digging her nails into my hand, excruciatingly, and we both breathed hard as we saw Porter take up other long and shiny tools that gleamed in the obscurity. He was doing something with them, quietly, with a constant flow of encouraging language. I wondered how the man's voice could remain so calm. Frieda's left heel rested for a moment on my right big toe, crushingly, but she knew not what she was doing, and I bore the torture without a cry, till I could push her away. I had not realized that a man could suffer so much. And Porter was still working away, looking ghostly in the penumbra. Then, suddenly, he let out an ejaculation imitated from the Comanches, rose from his chair, ran to the window and admitted a flood of light that nearly blinded us. Frieda, shamefaced, lifted her head from my shoulder and rose with incredible swiftness.
"Is—is it all over?" she asked, tremulously.
"Surest thing you know," replied our young friend. "The finest little growth upon the right chord you ever saw. I had made up my mind not to go at it halfcocked, and that's why I've taken so much time to get her so that a fellow could do anything he wanted to her larynx. But it pays, I can tell you!"
"And—and will I be able to sing again?" asked Frances, hoarsely.
"You will have to use your voice just as little as possible for a few days," he answered. "Not a word more than you can help. I hope—I believe that you will be able to sing again, after the chord heals up, but you must not try for a long time. And then it will take a lot of practice, of course, because your throat has forgotten nearly all it ever knew about singing. It will have to come back slowly and gradually. Be sure and come in to-morrow and let me have a look at it."