There was no “boy” left in the Senior Surgeon when he reached home that night.
Gray with road-travel, haggard with strain and fatigue, it was long, long after the rosy sunset-time, long, long after the yellow supper light, that he came dragging up through the sweet-scented dusk of the garden and threw himself down without greeting of any sort on the top step of the piazza, where the White Linen Nurse’s skirts glowed palely through the gloom.
Color-Tone, engraved for THE CENTURY by H. C. Merrill and H. Davidson
“HE WAS INORDINATELY BUSY RELEASING THE LAST CANARY”
DRAWN BY HERMAN PFEIFER
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LARGER IMAGE
“Well, I put a canary-bird back into its cage for you,” he confided laconically. “It was a little chap’s soul. It sure would have gotten away before morning.”
“Who was the man that tried to turn it loose this time?” asked the White Linen Nurse.
“I didn’t say that anybody did,” growled the Senior Surgeon.