Johnny Rosenfeld was dead. All of K.'s skill had not sufficed to save him.
The operation had been a marvel, but the boy's long-sapped strength failed
at the last.
K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was
going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.
"I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot," he said. "Look and see."
K. lifted the light covering.
"You're right, old man. It's moving."
"Brake foot, clutch foot," said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.
K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time
enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.
The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below
came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open
his eyes.
"You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever I
get a chance."
"Yes, put in a word for me," said K. huskily.
He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator--that whatever he, K., had
done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal would
count.
The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a
secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the
hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and
played "The Holy City."
Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very
comfortable.
"Tell her nix on the sob stuff," he complained. "Ask her to play 'I'm
twenty-one and she's eighteen.'"
She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to the
staccato air.
"Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her."
So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny
began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: "Are you sure I'm
going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?"
"I give you my solemn word," said K. huskily, "that you are going to be
better than you have ever been in your life."
It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be
set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's
hands over his breast.
The violin-player stood by uncertainly.
"How very young he is! Was it an accident?"