"It would be of no use," repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly; "a great operation is proposed—but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is—'will it kill?'"
"The question is everything to us, mynheer," said Hans, with tearful dignity.
Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.
"Ah! exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one's father killed—of course not. I am a fool."
"Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?"
"Humph! this is no new illness. The same thing growing worse every instant—pressure on the brain—will take him off soon like that," said the doctor, snapping his fingers.
"And the operation may save him," pursued Hans. "How soon, mynheer, can we know?"
Dr. Boekman grew impatient.
"In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let her decide. My time is short."
Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, he could not utter a syllable; then turning his eyes away he said in a firm voice: