"I don't get it," he went on. "I just don't get the big central idea behind it. Don't all these tugs we send out ever get there? First they tell the kid he'll have his life saved in twelve hours or so. Then they get him to take a shot so his mind won't crack up while he's waiting.
"Now they know very well the shot won't last for thirty days. If it did he'd starve to death. So what have they accomplished? Nothing. As a matter of fact they've made things worse instead of better. What's going to happen to that poor kid when he wakes up in twelve hours and finds out he still has to wait for thirty more days? What's going to happen to him then, Doc? Don't you think that kid will really go off his rocker for sure?"
Donnelly and Williams both looked at the little psychiatrist. He sat again at his former place at the table, white and shaken. His face was once again buried in one hand.
"Come on, Doc," whispered Williams, quietly. "What's going on here, anyway?"
"That's enough," cried the doctor, suddenly. He sprang up and strode toward the door. "Leave me alone," he exclaimed, almost in tears. "By heaven, I've had enough of this. I've had all I can stand."
Donnelly moved to block the door and the psychiatrist came abruptly to a halt. "That ain't enough, Doc. You get out after you talk."
"For God's sake, Joe."
"Shut up, Williams, I'm warning you for the last time."
"Let me by. I warn you, Donnelly. Let me by."
Williams moved in, regaining a sudden spurt of assurance. "What about that kid up there, Doc? Nobody's letting him by, are they, Doc?"