The same day Dr. Max operated at the hospital. It was a Wilson day, the

young surgeon having six cases. One of the innovations Dr. Max had made

was to change the hour for major operations from early morning to

mid-afternoon. He could do as well later in the day,--his nerves were

steady, and uncounted numbers of cigarettes did not make his hand

shake,--and he hated to get up early.

The staff had fallen into the way of attending Wilson's operations. His

technique was good; but technique alone never gets a surgeon anywhere.

Wilson was getting results. Even the most jealous of that most jealous of

professions, surgery, had to admit that he got results.

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Operations were over for the afternoon. The last case had been wheeled out

of the elevator. The pit of the operating-room was in disorder--towels

everywhere, tables of instruments, steaming sterilizers. Orderlies were

going about, carrying out linens, emptying pans. At a table two nurses

were cleaning instruments and putting them away in their glass cases.

Irrigators were being emptied, sponges recounted and checked off on written

lists.

In the midst of the confusion, Wilson stood giving last orders to the

interne at his elbow. As he talked he scoured his hands and arms with a

small brush; bits of lather flew off on to the tiled floor. His speech was

incisive, vigorous. At the hospital they said his nerves were iron; there

was no let-down after the day's work. The internes worshiped and feared

him. He was just, but without mercy. To be able to work like that, so

certainly, with so sure a touch, and to look like a Greek god! Wilson's

only rival, a gynecologist named O'Hara, got results, too; but he sweated

and swore through his operations, was not too careful as to asepsis, and

looked like a gorilla.

The day had been a hard one. The operating room nurses were fagged. Two

or three probationers had been sent to help cleanup, and a senior nurse.

Wilson's eyes caught the nurse's eyes as she passed him.

"Here, too, Miss Harrison!" he said gayly. "Have they set you on my

trail?"

With the eyes of the room on her, the girl answered primly:-"I'm to be in your office in the mornings, Dr. Wilson, and anywhere I am

needed in the afternoons."

"And your vacation?"

"I shall take it when Miss Simpson comes back."

Although he went on at once with his conversation with the interne, he

still heard the click of her heels about the room. He had not lost the fact

that she had flushed when he spoke to her. The mischief that was latent in

him came to the surface. When he had rinsed his hands, he followed her,

carrying the towel to where she stood talking to the superintendent of the

training school.




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