"Don't fence," Allison was saying, huskily. "I've asked so much that
I've quit asking."

The young man nodded complete understanding. "I know. The moss-backs sit
around and look wise, and expect to work miracles on a patient who
doesn't know what they're doing and finally gets the impression that he
isn't considered fit to know. Far be it from me to disparage the
pioneers of our noble profession, but I'm modest enough to admit that I
need help, and the best help, every time, comes from the patient
himself."

He drew up his chair beside the bed and sat down. Allison's eager eyes
did not swerve from his face.

"Mind you," he went on, "I don't promise anything--I can't,
conscientiously. In getting a carriage out of the mud, more depends upon
the horse than on the driver. Nature will have to do the work--I can't.
All I can do is to guide her gently. If she's pushed, she gets balky.
Maybe there's something ahead of her that I don't see, and there's no
use spurring her ahead when she's got to stop and get her breath before
she can go up hill.

"That hand can't heal itself without good blood to draw upon, and good
material to make bone and nerve of, so we'll begin to stoke up,
gradually, and meanwhile, I'll camp right here and see what's doing. And
if you can bring yourself to sort of--well, sing at your work, you know,
it's going to make the job a lot easier."

Allison drew a long breath of relief. "You give me hope," he said.