“It makes you nervous. Put it up. Play with the axe, if you like; that’s more in character.”
The two looked each other in the eye for a minute. The clear gaze of Black met the bloodshot one of Red.
“Here—I’ll get it for you,” offered Black, and got up and went over and picked up the axe, its blade shining, its edge keen as one of Red’s instruments. Black ran his fingers cautiously along it. “I suppose no surgeon ever owned a dull axe,” he commented, as he brought it to Red. “This would cut a hair, I think. Take it—and put up the knife to please me, will you?”
“Anything to oblige.” Grimly Red accepted the axe, snapped the knife shut and dropped it into his pocket. “Anything else? Going to preach to me now with the axe for a text?”
“I think so. I’m glad you’re ready. But the axe won’t do for a text—nor even for an illustration. I’ve got that here.” He put his hand to his pocket and drew out a little, worn, leather-bound Book, over which he looked with a keen, fearless gaze at Red. “See here,” he said. “I could try a lot of applied psychology leading up to this little Book—and you’d recognize, all the way, that that was what I was doing. What’s the use? When you go to see a patient, and know by the look of him and the few things he tells you what’s the matter, you don’t lead up by degrees to giving him the medicine he needs, do you? Not you! You write your prescription on the spot, and say ‘Take this.’ And he takes it and gets well.”
“Or dies—if I’m out of luck. It isn’t the medicine that decides it, either way. It’s his own power of resistance. So your simile’s no good.”
Black nodded. This sounded to him somewhat more like the old Red. “Yours is, then,” he said. “It’s your power of resistance I’m calling on. You used it just now—when you stopped chopping at that tree. Do you think I don’t know—you wanted to keep on, and take the possible consequences—which you almost hoped—or thought you hoped—would be the probable ones?”
And now Red’s startled eyes met his. “My God!” he ejaculated, and got to his feet quickly, dropping the axe. He strode away among the trees for a minute, then came slowly back.
“Do you think, Bob Black,” he demanded, “you dare tackle a case like mine? I see you know what I’m up against. Do you imagine there’s anything in that Book there that—fits my case?” And Black saw that his eyes looked hungrily at the little Book—as men’s eyes have looked since it was given shape. When there is nowhere else to go for wisdom, even the most unwonted hands open the Book—and find there what they honestly seek.
“I know there is.” Black opened the Book—it fell open easily, as one much used. He looked along its pages, as one familiar with every line. It took but a moment to find the words he sought. In a clear, quiet voice he read the great, brave words of Paul the apostle: