"I hope so, too, Blizzard," said Dr. Ferris, "with all my heart." And with an encouraging nod to Wilmot he followed the beggar out of the room, and closed the door behind him.
In the operating quarter were two nurses on whom Dr. Ferris had been able to rely for many years, and three clean-cut young surgeons, in whom he had detected more than ordinary talents.
"He said he'd send word when he was ready," said one of the nurses.
"Good," said Dr. Ferris, "for I have a few words to say to you all, knowing that, because of the etiquette of our profession, these words will not go any further."
For five minutes he spoke quietly and gravely. He told them his relations with Blizzard since the beginning. And something of Blizzard's relations, subsequent to the loss of his legs, with the rest of the world. Then he explained the operation which he was expected to perform, enlarging upon both its chances for success and for failure. And then, much to the astonishment of his audience, he brought his talk to an end with these words:
"But in this instance the operation has no chance whatever of success. The stump of a limb amputated in childhood does not keep pace with the rest of the body-growth. And we should be trying to graft the legs of a grown man upon the hips of a child. It seems, therefore, that I have brought you here under false pretenses. Technically I am going to commit a crime--I am going to perform an operation not thought of or sanctioned by the patient. But my conscience is clear. When I examined the child Blizzard after he had been run over, I did not give the attention which would be given nowadays to minor injuries, bruises, and contusions which he had sustained. From all accounts the boy was a good boy up to the time of his accident. In taking off his legs I have blamed myself for the whole of his subsequent downfall. I think I have been wrong. The man was once arrested for a crime, and freed on police perjury. During his incarceration, however, accurate measurements and a description of him were made. Only to-day a copy of this document has been shown to me, by a gentleman high in the secret service. And it seems that Blizzard is differentiated from other legless men, by a mole under one arm, and by a curious protuberance on the back of his head--and I believe that his moral delinquency is not owing to the despair and humiliation of being a cripple, but to skull-pressure upon the brain."
The three young surgeons looked at each other. One of them started to voice a protest.
"But, doctor--it's--you're asking a good deal of us. I don't know that I personally--"
Three knocks sounded quietly on a door of the room. Dr. Ferris, breaking into a smile of relief, sprang to open it.
In the rectangle appeared Lichtenstein; he was dripping wet from head to foot and carried in one hand a heavy blue automatic.