"I can't do it, Pearl," he cried. "I can't. He'll die, I tell you, like that other poor fellow. I can't send another man to meet his Maker."
"Oh, he's ready!" Pearl interrupted him. "Don't hold back on Arthur's account."
"I can't do it," he repeated hopelessly. "He'll die under my knife, I can't kill two men in one night. O God, be merciful to a poor, blundering, miserable wretch!" he groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Pearl noticed that the back of his coat quivered like human flesh.
Arthur's breath was becoming more and more laboured; his eyes roved sightlessly around the room; his head rolled on the pillow in a vain search for rest; his fingers clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes.
Pearl was filled with dismay. The foundations of her little world were tottering.
All but One. There was One who had never failed her. He would not fail her now.
She dropped on her knees.
"O God, dear God," she prayed, beating her hard little brown hands together, "don't go back on us, dear God. Put the gimp into Doc again; he's not scared to do it, Lord, he's just lost his grip for a minute; he's not scared Lord; it looks like it, but he isn't. You can bank on Doc, Lord, he's not scared. Bear with him, dear Lord, just a minute—just a minute—he'll do it, and he'll do it right, Amen."
When Pearl rose from her knees the doctor had lifted his head.
"Do you want hot water and sheets and carbolic?" she asked.