And the second phase of my illness began. The swelling joints, the atrophy of muscles, the inflammation of nerves, the—why go into it? They sent to the largest institute for the best specialist in whatever this sequel might be.
And there was G.T. Death again.
The specialist seemed seven feet tall—a skinny man—who wore such a mustache as only the Poles can grow. He sat on my bed after the torturesome examination and told me about it, in French.
"I am afraid, my American friend, that I have bad news for you. You are a man. You will want the truth. It is a progressive malady. Your foot—your arm—already crippled. When it reaches the heart—"
He went away.
My nurse wept.
Ted was the one we counted on to be the great man. The strong, the good-humored, the precocious, the gifted, the good, the young Paul Bunyan of the family. Dead.
And now I had a turn at it.
I, the elder brother.
I, who had taken Ted on his first trip abroad.