The car slid down hill and he folded his hands sorrowfully.
Dr. Harold Barton squared his stocky body which had never outgrown the reach of any child’s hand, and forged to the right down the corridor behind, well behind, Hoffbein.
Prissy Paton stuck his smooth, pudgy and wonderfully capable hands into his vest pockets, turned down the long corridor to the left and in what his students called his “delivery walk,” caught up with the lengthy stretch of Cub Sterling’s legs.
“Remember, Ethridge, my boy, we are behind you. We have every confidence in....”
A group of internes passed and Prissy’s green eyes noted that Ethridge barely acknowledged their greeting. Then that report about his never speaking to anybody except with a nod was true. Too bad! Too bad! He had been against his elevation from the first. Too young! Told Peters and Hoffbein so; tried to tell MacArthur, but the meeting came the day, the very hour the Governor’s wife....
“Great confidence, Lad,” he purred paternally and pattered away.
Cub gave the door of Medicine Clinic a shove and strode into the elevator.
Two minutes later he walked into Room Two, off Ward B, and closed that door. The inclination to be comforted, when harassed, was new to him. He thought he was being medical and “carrying on.”
Sally Ferguson turned over languidly and slit her eyes slightly.
She was damned tired of being poked at by that Jew resident and that hen medic; of figuring out a career and a medical school for her famous father; of taking cascara and mineral oil; of being a sport and trying to like it.