“It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow,” he said. “But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no charity.”
“Maybe Mr. Howe sent it.”
“You can bet your last match he didn't.”
In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully.
“He works in the gas office,” he said, “I've seen him there. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?”
But the story had seized on his imagination.
“Say, Mr. Le Moyne.”
“Yes, Jack.”
He called him “Jack.” The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a state license?
“They've got a queer story about you here in the ward.”