great stockyards were a blur in his thought. Not all of them together,
it seemed, could buy the skill that was being given freely for a Greek
waif, or hurry by a hair's breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that
held his life.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do," he said. He had risen and was
facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy--with his hat in
his hand.

The surgeon returned the look. "There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris.
This, for instance--" He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded
it in slow fingers. "It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the
boy--there will be things later--for the boy--"

"Private room?" suggested the great man.

"No--the ward is better. It gives him interests--keeps his mind off
himself and keeps him from remembering things. But when he can be
moved, he must be in the country--good food, fresh air, things to amuse
him--he's a jolly little chap!" The surgeon laughed out. "Oh, we shall
bring him through." He added it almost gaily. "He is so sane--he is a
Greek!"

Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. "How long before he can be
moved?" he asked bluntly.

The surgeon paused--"two weeks--three--perhaps--I must have him under my
eye--I can't tell--" He looked at the great man keenly. "What he really
needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday--to talk with him--or
keep quiet with him--someone with sense."