“Doctor—let’s have that wrestle now! I’d like it to remember.”
“You would, would you? Hold on—don’t take off your coat. I know better than to play tricks with my digestion like that, if you don’t. You’re younger than I—you might get away with it. But—I’ll give you that tussle some day you’re so anxious for.”
“Meanwhile—I wish you’d give me something else.”
“What’s that?” Red was instantly on his guard—Black could see that clearly. He had expected it. But it did not deter him from saying the thing he wanted to say.
“Shake hands with me. Did you know you never have?”
“Never have!”
“Not the way I want you to. I’m asking you now to shake hands with my profession. I’m tired of having you against it. I ask you to give it fair play in your mind. You admit that it’s worth while for you to spend the last drop you have for human life. But it’s wasting good red blood for a man to spend his for human souls. Do you mean it? Ah, Doctor Burns, you don’t. Tell me so—the way I want you to.”
The suspicion dropped out of Red’s eyes, but into them came something else—the showing of a dogged human will. He stood looking into the fire, his hands in his pockets—where they had been for some time. He made no motion to withdraw them. Black’s hands were clasped behind him—he made no motion to extend them. A long silence succeeded—or long it seemed to Black, at least. Had he lost his case? He had never thought to state it thus to Red—but when the moment came it had seemed to him he could do no otherwise.... His heart beat rather heavily.... How was Red going to take it?
The red-headed surgeon looked up at last. “Do you mean you want me to shake hands with your entire profession—all the men in it?”
“Are there no charlatans in medicine? But you—are the real thing. I wouldn’t deny you a handshake—if you wanted it.”