Outside of the profession Jordan King was closest in touch with Burns's
case. He persistently refused to believe that all would not come out as
they desired. He came daily, brought all sorts of offerings for the
patient's comfort, and always ran up to see his friend, hold his left
hand for a minute and smile at him, without a hint in his ruddy face of
the wrench at the heart he experienced each time at sight of the
steadily increasing devastation showing in the face on the pillow.
"You're a trump, Jord," Burns said weakly to him one morning. King had
just finished a heart-warming report of certain messages brought from
some of Burns's old chronic patients in the hospital wards, where it was
evident the young man had gone on purpose to collect them. "Every time I
look at you I think what an idiot I was ever to imagine you needed me
to put backbone into you, last spring."
"But I did--and you did it. And if you think I showed more backbone to
go through a thing that hardly took it out of me at all than you to
stand this devilish slow torture and weakness--well, it just shows
you've lost your usual excellent judgment. See?"
"I see that you're one of the best friends a man ever had. There's only
one other who could do as much to keep my head above water--and he isn't
here."
"Why isn't he? Who is he?" demanded King eagerly. "Tell me and I'll get
him."
"No, no. He could do no more than is being done. I merely get to
thinking of him and wishing I could see him.
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