He happened to be in his club when the news came to him, and taking a carriage he drove at once to the hospital.
What a contrast—from the quiet luxurious rooms of the club, from the peaceful reading or talking men, to this abode of pain and distress.
The Judge reverently bared his head as he entered the door. “God pity them!” he murmured, as he walked through the long halls and corridors to the private room where his young grandson had been carried.
There was a white-capped nurse in the room. The Judge bowed courteously to her, then he turned to the bed.
Was that Titus—was that his lively, mischievous grandson—that pale, quiet lad with the bandaged head?
The Judge stretched out both hands and laid them on the lad’s wrists.
“My boy,” he said, piteously, “my boy, don’t you know me?”
“He is quite unconscious, sir,” said the nurse.
“Will he die?” asked the Judge.
“Sir,” she said, protestingly, “the operation has not taken place—only an examination.”