“He wants that paper witnessed,” he explained. “I forgot—it’s something he dictated to me.”
“Well, hurry up about it,” the surgeon replied carelessly, willing to humor the sick man. “Here!”
Brainard dipped his pen in the ink-bottle and handed it to the surgeon, who lightly dashed down his signature at the bottom of the sheet, without reading it.
“Now are we ready?” the doctor demanded impatiently.
But the blue eyes arrested Brainard, and the young man, stooping over the stretcher, caught a faint whisper:
“You’ll g-g-go?”
“Sure!”
“Gi-gi-give it all to—”
Krutzmacht struggled hard to pronounce a name, but he could not utter the word.
“It’s no use!” the doctor exclaimed. “Tell him to wait until he’s better.”