"It's funny," he said with his nervous smile—"hard to realize, I mean. You see, I feel so fit—"
"Between attacks," Hartt interjected quickly.
"Yes," Whitaker had to admit, dashed.
"Attacks," said Bushnell, heavily, "recurrent at intervals constantly more brief, each a trifle more severe than its predecessor."
He shut his thin lips tight, as one who has consciously pronounced the last word.
Greyerson sighed.
"But I don't understand," argued the prisoner at the bar, plaintively bewildered. "Why, I rowed with the Crew three years hand-running—not a sign of anything wrong with me!"
"If you had then had proper professional advice, you would have spared yourself such strains. But it's too late now; the mischief can't be undone."
Evidently Bushnell considered the last word his prerogative. Whitaker turned from him impatiently.
"What about an operation?" he demanded of Greyerson.