The surgeon answered without looking up from the rubber gloves he was peeling from his hands.
"He has a chance," he said.
"Much of a chance?" John asked.
"Not much, I'm afraid," the surgeon said. "You see, he is weak from the loss of blood and he is hurt internally. His ribs have punctured his lungs. Only one in a hundred injured the way he is ever recovers. We'll do everything we can now, but we're almost helpless."
He went to Murphy's bedside. The figure stretched flat on the bed was motionless except for an almost indiscernible trembling of the covering that showed Murphy was still breathing. The face of the unconscious youth was hidden by bandages. A pungent odor of ether filled the room. As John looked down on the bed, praying that the little flame of life would not be extinguished by the cold breath of death, he became conscious of the fact that someone else had entered and was standing close behind him. Believing it to be a nurse he turned slowly to ask if it was possible that Murphy might regain consciousness after the effects of the anesthetic wore off. He found himself facing the mayor.
For fully a minute the mayor stood looking down at Murphy. Tears filled his eyes and brimmed over his cheeks. He let them fall unheeded as he lifted his eyes to John.
"Gallant," he said, "if you don't mind, I'm going to pray for the life of this boy."
John bowed his head. He saw the mayor drop to his knees at the side of the bed so that his forehead touched the covers.
"'Thy will be done,' oh, Father," he heard the mayor pray, "but we ask Thee in Thy gentle mercy, to spare us the life of this boy. We ask Thee to hold the life in his poor, battered body; to bring him back to us. We ask it, oh, Lord, in the name of Thy son; Amen."
The mayor rose to his feet and they walked from the room.