“Oh, stow it,” cut in McCall. “It was no more than any one else would have done under the circumstances.” McCall slid into a chair, one leg held gingerly out and deposited the crutches on the floor. Hamilton resumed his seat. “As a matter of fact, the men you really owe your life to are Williams—”
“The nigger? Yes, I suppose so.”
“And Dr. Levin.”
“Dr. Levin? Who’s he?”
“He’s your surgeon. Don’t you know him? Black-haired fellow, blue eyes, little stoop-shouldered. Comes here every day. Got a lot of other wards, too. Isn’t he still handling your case?”
“Oh, the doctor, sure. I didn’t know his name, though. Levin? Jewish name, isn’t it?”
“Must be. Anyway it was Dr. Levin who really saved your life. Williams and I simply brought your body back. But you were hanging by a hair. It was Dr. Levin who pulled you through.
“Don’t you remember reading about Dr. Levin joining the service—giving up his big practice and all that—about the time we left for training camp. I remember it because I wrote it.”
“It isn’t that Dr. Levin, is it?”
“Yes, the big surgeon.”