“——tell my papa!” were the words which fell upon the ears of the startled surgeons, while the large blue eyes of their patient slowly unclosed and gazed up into the faces bending over him, the light of reason once more gleaming in their azure depths.
“What will you tell papa?” asked Dr. Scherz, in a quiet tone, while the other surgeon drew quickly out of sight.
“Jack struck Margery,” was the instant reply.
“Who is your papa, my boy?”
“Why, he’s papa; don’t you know?—my good papa,” was the response, while a puzzled look shot over the lad’s pale face.
Dr. Scherz knew from his manner of speech that he must have been very young—not more than five years of age—at the time of his injury, and when that great darkness had so suddenly enveloped him.
“Yes, your good papa,” said the doctor, soothingly. “Now go to sleep like a man.”
“I’m Margery’s little man—where is Margery?” he questioned, drowsily, and closing his eyes, he was soon in a profound slumber.
The two physicians watched him in silence for a few moments, then they looked up into each other’s face; eye held eye for an instant with an eloquent glance, the next their hands met in a prolonged and hearty clasp across their patient, for they knew that, if all went well, they had succeeded in an operation that would give them a famous reputation for all time.
When the boy awoke again he called lustily for “Margery,” and a kind and motherly nurse was at once appointed to care for him.