The Senior Surgical Interne was not a drinker, but he was willing
to try anything once. So he secured a two-ounce medicine glass, and
filled it.

"Looks nice," he commented, and tasted it. "It's not bad."

"Not bad!" said the pharmacy clerk. "You'd pay four dollars a bottle
for that stuff in a hotel. Actual cost here, about forty cents."

The Senior Surgical Interne sat down and stretched out his legs. He
had the glass in his hand.

"It's rather sweet," he said. "But it looks pretty." He took another
sip.

After he had finished it, he got to thinking things over. He felt
about seven feet tall and very important, and not at all like a
voice crying in the wilderness. He had a strong inclination to go
into the Superintendent's office and tell him where he went wrong in
running the institution--which he restrained. And another to go up
to H and tell Jane Brown the truth about Johnny Fraser--which he
yielded to.

On the way up he gave the elevator man a cigar.

He was very explicit with Jane Brown.

"Your man's wrong, that's all there is about it," he said. "I can't
say anything and you can't. But he's wrong. That's an operative
case. The Staff knows it."