That statement was not an argument. Nevertheless Mr. Bailey accepted it as conclusive. “Exactly!” he said, with a warm look at his son. It was the first warm look Jimmie had received from his father since the one that had been bent upon him at the station. Mr. Bailey was well disposed to people who helped him rationalize his way out of difficult situations.
The family drove down to the hospital promptly at nine. Jimmie walked. His insistence on walking was becoming a sort of insult to his family. But he went on insisting. “Only eight blocks or so,” he said. “I’ll make it—never fear.”
The family had gone in by the main entrance. But Jimmie, when he reached the hospital, went around to the emergency entrance, where the ambulances were unloaded.
He heard laughter down a corridor and he walked toward it. The intern who had been in the receiving room was kidding a nurse. On Jimmie’s appearance, the nurse smiled once, prettily, and hurried away.
“My name’s Bailey,” Jimmie said.
“Yes. I know. Mine’s Heiffler. Your brother’s fine.”
“I thought he would be. Were you there for the operation?”
Heiffler nodded. “I assisted the assistant. Cather’s good, you know. Damned good.
Too, good, for this burg. He likes it here. Why—I can’t imagine. I’m from Chicago.
Siddown.”