"Ready, Jack?"
"Ready."
John Leaver took the seat beside Burns, giving the outstretched hand a
strong grip. He carried no hand-bag, there was no sign of his profession
about him. He had sent to Baltimore for his own instruments, but they
were waiting for him in the little operating-room at Sunny Farm, having
been through every rite practised by modern surgery.
The car set off.
"It's a magnificent morning," said Red Pepper Burns.
"Ideal."
"September's the best month in the year, to my fancy."
"A crisp October rivals it, to my notion."
"Not bad. There's a touch of frost in the air this morning."
"Quite a touch."
The car sped on. The men were silent. His one glance at his friend's face
had showed Burns that Leaver had, apparently, his old quiet command of
himself. But this, though reassuring, he knew could not be trusted as an
absolute indication of control within. For himself, he had never been
so profoundly excited in his life. He found himself wondering how he was
going to stand and look on, unemployed, yet ready, at a sign, to take the
helm. He felt as if that moment, if it should come, would find him as
unnerved as the man he must help. Yet, with all his heart and will, he
was silently assuring himself that all would go well--must go well. He
must not even fear failure, think failure, imagine failure.
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