“I did hear it, Red. There’s no possible doubt. It’s unquestionably the result of the infection of two years ago. We all knew it then. I knew I’d find it now. That’s why——”
“I see. That’s why you’ve been advising me not to go. My place was here—knitting!”
Buller was silent. His broad, kind face worked a little as the big figure crossed the room to the window. He could look up now—Red’s back was toward him.
“Doesn’t the amount of work I stand up under, every earthly day and night, show that in spite of your blamed old dissection I could do a good job over there before I cash in—which, of course, may be indefinitely postponed? Nobody knows better than you that a fellow can go on working like a fiend for years with the rottenest sort of heart, and never even suspect himself that there’s a thing wrong——”
“I know.” Buller’s voice was gentle as a woman’s. “But—first you’ve got to pass the stiffest sort of Government tests, Red—and——”
“And I can’t, eh?”
It was done—Max Buller’s job. He didn’t have to answer that last question—which was no question, as he well knew. There was finality in Red’s own voice; he had accepted the fact. He knew too well the uselessness of doubting Buller’s judgment—the other man was too well qualified professionally for that. Red knew, also, as well as if he had been told in plain language, precisely what his own condition must be. Out of the race he was—that was all there was to it. Still fit to carry heavy burdens, capable of sustaining the old routine under the old terms, but unfit to take his place among the new runners on the new track, where the prize was to be greater than any he had ever won. And his splendid body, at that very minute, seemingly as perfect as it had ever been; every function, as far as he himself could be aware, in the smoothest running order! He could not even be more than usually conscious of the beat of his own heart, so apparently undisturbed it was by this intolerable news; while his spirit, his unquenched spirit, was giving him the hardest tussle of his life.
Buller was wrong—he must be wrong! He was “hearing things” that didn’t exist. Red wheeled about, the inconsistent accusation on his lips. It died at sight of his friend. Buller was slouched down in his swivel-chair, his chin on his breast, his head propped on his hand. Quite clearly Buller was taking this thing as hard—vicariously—as Red himself—as Buller usually took things that affected Red adversely. Oh, yes—the old boy knew—he couldn’t be fooled on a diagnosis like that. Red turned back to the window. It was all over—there was no possible appeal....
He went away almost immediately, and quite silently. There had been no torrent of speech since the blow actually went home. The red-headed surgeon with Celtic blood in his veins could be quiet enough when there was no use saying anything, as there certainly wasn’t now.