And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened—not so much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never deceived him if he trusted them.
He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?" he asked.
"A little." The tone was weary.
Dr. Carmon looked at him sharply. "Whereabouts?"
Medfield turned his head restively. "Everywhere," he said. "Up my back and shoulders—the right one—and in my head."
"Your head aches, does it?" That was the outside question; and inside, all the little therapeutic fibres in Dr. Carmon's stubby figure were saying to him: "His head is as good as yours is, this minute! What's the matter with him? Buck up—and find out!"
He put his hand on the patient's wrist. "What would you like for dinner?" he asked.
"I couldn't eat anything," said Medfield passively.
"Not a nice chop—with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" The doctor was watching the face.
Medfield shook his head resolutely. "I don't feel like eating."