HOW DICK LESTER TOOK HIS CHANCE.
There is a quiet street in a Melbourne suburb--a street lined with big
trees, where in the long, hot days you can hear the soft cooing of wood
pigeons; and yet so near the great highway of St. Kilda Road that the
clang of the tram bells comes clearly. There are queer wild creatures
there yet; the mopokes call at night in Fawkner Park, undisturbed by
the racing motors along Toorak Road, and some quick-eyed people declare
that they have seen 'possums dart across the tram lines. If you sleep
out on a balcony, as wise folk do, you may see owls flit by, even while
in the small hours the string of market carts from the country creeps
into Melbourne, the horses plodding along steadily, while the tired
drivers curl up on the seats asleep. But the carts do not come up the
quiet street. It lies dreaming until the magpies in the Grammar School
trees carol their morning song.
Back from the road in the quiet street stands a big house, girdled with
wide verandahs. It is the quietest place of all, though at all hours
of the day and night there are motors before its gate. Its wide lawns
and gardens shelter behind tall pittosporum hedges; climbing roses and
tecoma have clambered up the posts, making a screen to shield the
balconies. It never sleeps, although it is so quiet; white-uniformed
nurses flit here and there about it by night and day, and often the big
glass dome of a room at the back blazes with light throughout the
night, as busy surgeons fight Death over an unconscious form. In the
daytime there are beds and stretchers under the trees on the lawns, or
sheltered by gaily-striped tents; and people pass in and out, taking
sheaves of flowers to the people within, or leading pale-faced
convalescents home, to take up life anew. But it is a cheery place, as
a house of healing should be; it had seemed to smile to Dick Lester
when they brought him there from the ship, so brown and merry, after a
week on deck, that it was hard to understand why he should lie so still.
Neil Fraser gave his verdict next day.
"It's for you to decide," he told Dick's parents. "There is a chance;
I'll admit it's a slender one. If you decide to have no operation he
will probably live a long time, as they told you before--always a
cripple. Will he suffer? Yes, probably, at intervals--a good deal;
and there is always a chance of worse trouble developing."
"And the operation?" John Lester said.
"It is a risk. I've done it successfully; I've seen as good a man as I
am fail. Should it fail, it means a worse condition; possibly
hastening the end. If it should succeed--well, Dick will walk out of
the hospital."
Mrs. Lester drew a long breath.
"Will you tell me," she begged, "if you would advise us to have it
done?"
"Ah, that's too much to ask me," he said gently. "That is surely only
for you and his father to say. I can only tell you the chances."
There was silence for several minutes. Then the mother spoke, quickly.
"Then I say--do it!" she said. "I can't look Dick in the face if we do
not give him every possible chance. I can't tell him he's a cripple
for life without having a fight to save him. It isn't fair--it's like
caging some wild, free thing. I know what Dick would say, if we gave
him his choice."
Her husband took her hand and held it tightly.
"Yes, Dick would always choose the fight--he never yet lay down to
anything," he said. "We'll give him his chance, dear. Can you get it
over quickly, Fraser?"
"In two days," Neil Fraser said. He looked at them pityingly. "And
you know I'll do my best."
They knew it on this sunny November morning as they wandered blindly up
and down the quiet street; over to the roaring traffic of St. Kilda
Road and back again; ever back to the big house where, with two
surgeons to aid Neil Fraser, Dick was taking his last chance. They
could hear nothing yet, they knew; it was too soon to look for any word
from the glass-domed theatre at the back. Of that John Lester tried to
keep his wife from thinking. They talked of Dick--of his merry baby
days; of his first pony, of the happy years when life at Kurrajong had
centred about him while he slipped from childhood into boyhood. He had
looked only a little child when they kissed him that morning.
"We're going out for a little while," they had said. "You won't mind?"
"Oh, no!" Dick had answered, faintly surprised. There were several
surprising things that morning, the worst being that no one had seemed
to have time to bring him any breakfast. The nurse had laughed when he
said he was hungry, telling him the cook had gone on strike; but he was
nearly sure he saw one of them put her handkerchief to her eyes as she
left the room. Perhaps she was worried over something, he had thought;
he would not bother her any more about breakfast, anyway. Then his
father and mother had come for that queer early visit, leaving again
very soon. They had gone out quickly--but his mother had turned back
from the door and kissed him again.
"God bless you, my darling!" she had whispered--and was gone.
He was thinking over it when Dr. Fraser had appeared beside him. They
were great friends, and he grinned up at him.
"I say, is mother all right?"
"Quite all right," the doctor had said. "We've got to poke round you
again a bit, Dick, old man, but we're not going to hurt you like we did
last time--we'll put you to sleep instead. Just smell this--deep
breaths, now." Something light had been slipped over his face; he had
felt the doctor's hand over his, holding it in a firm, comforting
clasp, while a sudden roaring filled his ears, and the world slipped
away.
That was an hour ago--an hour since a nurse had run hastily to Mrs.
Lester to whisper, "He's taken the anæsthetic beautifully, and the
doctor says you're not to worry." And since then minutes had been ages
to the man and woman who waited for another messenger. They set
themselves walks, at first, round a block of streets, once, twice; all
the time with a listening ear for hurrying feet that might be sent to
fetch them; and when they came back to the end of the quiet street they
found themselves walking more and more quickly, straining to catch the
first glimpse of the gate where, perhaps, someone might be standing,
ready to beckon them to hasten. And at last they could keep away no
longer. They came to the hospital and walked up and down a quiet path,
that had seen many other people tramp in just such suspense as theirs.
Mrs. Lester gave in at last. There was a garden seat under a flaming
mass of bougainvillea; she sank upon it suddenly, and hid her face in
her hands, not weeping, but shuddering from head to foot with
convulsive tremors. Her husband put his arm round her, holding her
closely, almost welcoming any sign of emotion after long weeks of
unnatural calm. She pulled herself together after a while.
"It won't do--he may need us at any moment," she said. "John, how long
is it?"
"Nearly two hours. They can't be much longer, dear heart."
"I can't walk any more--my knees have turned stupid," she said. "If I
had something to do--anything----"
A woman turned in at the gate near them pushing a perambulator, in
which the baby cried angrily. They had seen her before; a young mother
whose little girl was in the hospital recovering from pneumonia. She
came to see her each morning, leaving the baby boy asleep in the
garden. But this morning the boy was considering a tooth that would
not come through; he declined to sleep, and woke the echoes with his
protests at being left. The poor young mother stood rocking him, her
face furrowed with perplexity.
"Ah, you naughty boy!" they heard her murmur. "How am I going to see
Winnie?"
John Lester took a quick stride forward.
"Lend my wife your baby," he said. "We'll look after him."
He picked up the child with a deft movement that made it clear that
Dick's thirteen years had not been long enough to make him forget how
to handle a baby. Mrs. Lester held out her hands for the crying bundle
and held it to her, rocking it backwards and forwards and crooning
brokenly. The baby struggled for a moment, and then gave in, putting
out a dimpled hand to catch the lace at her breast; and she leaned down
to him, holding him until she could touch the velvet-soft cheek. Her
husband stood looking at them, a lump in his throat; the years slipped
away, and she was a child-mother again, holding Dick to her, singing
the little sleepy song he loved. He had been so proud of them
both--his two babies, he had called them; and he had boasted that she
had never grown up. There were lines in her face now, graven in the
last three months; and in the glass-domed room his other baby lay,
taking his last fighting chance; and he could help neither. He shut
his lips on a groan, turning away.
Neil Fraser was coming across the grass, taking the flower-beds in his
stride. He was pale and tired, but his eyes blazed with triumph. John
Lester stared at him, and no words would come.
"It's all right!" Fraser said. He put out a hand to each, and suddenly
grabbed the borrowed baby, for Mrs. Lester trembled so violently that
he feared she would faint. "It's all right, I tell you! He's
splendid--sleeping peacefully."
"And the operation?" John Lester uttered.
"Don't I tell you it's all right?" He threw back his head, with a
laugh like a boy's. "There were complications, as well as what I
thought, and I had to take chances--but Dick will be as fit as ever he
was. He'll walk out of the hospital, Mrs. Lester--ah, poor soul!"
They caught her between them as she swayed forward. The baby was
dumped unceremoniously on the grass, where, in sheer perversity, he lay
kicking fat legs and chewing a clover blossom contentedly. Mrs. Lester
came back to consciousness to find herself on the garden seat, the
silver cup of a flask at her lips.
"Tell me again!" she whispered.
"I could tell you all day, for I don't mind admitting I'm a proud man!"
Fraser said. "I don't think it's been done before. I had a case much
the same in Munich, but there were, as I said, complications in Dick's
case; but it worked out splendidly. He stood it well--not that I ever
had any doubt about that; he's so tremendously fit, physically. And
next year, unless you go hunting for scars on him, you won't need to
remember that he was ever hurt!"
"When can we see him?" the father uttered.
"You can look at him whenever you like; he's back in bed, fast asleep,
with a nurse watching him. And you can see him for five minutes this
evening. I'll ring up to see how he is after lunch, and if you like
I'll meet you here at five o'clock. Now I'm going to tell my old
mother--you've no idea how keen she has been about Dick. She's coming
to see him as soon as I'll let her!"
He wrung their hands in turn.
"We can't thank you," John Lester said huskily.
"There's no need; I've had the most entirely successful case I've ever
handled. I ought to thank you for giving me such a chance. And I'm
more glad than I can say--he's no end of a boy!"
His steps died away on the gravel. Mrs. Lester looked up at her
husband.
"Will you go and just look at him?" she said. "I can't--my silly knees
won't do as they're told, and I can't risk making a fuss. Just look at
him for me, and come and tell me every little thing about him!"
"Sure you're all right if I leave you?"
"Quite sure."
There was only the baby in sight. He stooped suddenly and kissed her;
they clung together for a moment, without speaking. Then he went away
across the lawn. Mrs. Lester sat still for a moment; then she stooped,
still trembling, and picked up the baby. She was holding him silently,
her face against his, when the other mother came back. Across the
little face they looked at each other.
"They told me your boy has come through all right," the baby's mother
said. "Oh, I'm so glad! And my little girl is better."
"I'm so glad, too, for you," Mrs. Lester said. Suddenly the tears she
had not shed for three months began to rain down her face, but she did
not hide them. She looked through the mist of them at the other
mother--who, being a mother, was crying too.
A big tear fell, presently, on the nose of the baby, who roared
disapproval; whereupon they both fell to consoling him apologetically.
"I must take him away--he's so big, he'll make you tired," his mother
said, gathering her son up proudly.
"Thank you for lending him to me," Mrs. Lester said. "I think he kept
me from going mad. He's such a dear, comfortable baby--just what Dick
was. How many teeth has he?"
The baby's mother told her, with other thrilling details--so engrossing
that they did not hear Mr. Lester's step until he was beside them.
"He's just as peaceful as that baby is going to be in two minutes," he
said, smiling at the little sleepy face. "And you're going to lie down
as peacefully, too, the moment I can get you home. Come on, we must go
and tell Merle that she need be 'Legs' no longer!"