“Yes.”
“Any news?”
“Oh—worse,” and he snapped the bag to with an irritable closure of the hands.
John Tugler looked at him as he might have looked at a refractory friend.
“Come now, Murchison, you’re feeling damned bad. Knock off to-day. Stileman and I can manage.”
“Thanks. I must work.”
“Must, eh?”
“It helps.”
“Like punching something when you’re savage. Perhaps you’re right.”
Tugler returned to the girl with the red rash, while Murchison passed on to the surgery, where some half-score patients were waiting to be treated.