When he entered the operating room the boy gave a low cry of pain, bent over the form on the table, and pressed his lips to the white forehead. When he looked up his eyes were filled with tears. He nodded to the surgeon.
Doggedly, almost defiantly, he submitted himself, but when the artery had been severed and the blood was pulsing from his veins to the inanimate form beside him his expression changed to that of abject resignation. Several times he sighed audibly, but as if from mental rather than bodily anguish. The silence became oppressive. To Markham it seemed hours before the surgeon looked up from his vigil and nodded to the nurse. Then:
“You’re a brave lad,” he said cheerfully to the boy. “Your sacrifice has won!”
The boy, pale and weak, tried to smile. “Thank God!” he muttered. Then, with twitching mouth: “Say, Doc, how soon do I croak?”
“Why, not for a good many years, I hope.” The surgeon turned frowningly to Markham. “Didn’t you explain that there was no danger to him?”
“God! I’m afraid I didn’t!” stammered Markham. “I was so keen to get his consent. Do you mean that he thought——”
The surgeon nodded pityingly and turned to the lad. “You’re not going to die,” he said gently. “You’ll be all right to-morrow. But I’m deeply sorry you’ve suffered as you must have suffered the past hour. You were braver than any of us suspected!”
“Aw, that’s all right,” muttered the boy. “She’s my sister, ain’t she?”
THE OLD GROVE CROSSING
By Albert H. Coggins