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Steeled though he was to the hearing of tragic facts, he was
helpless for the minute before this. And then, refusing to let it close
in upon him, it was he who turned recklessly assertive, defiantly
insistent.
"Any fool would know it's not that," he said, his gruff voice touched
with bravado.
There was one of those strange changes then. Karl turned and faced him.
"How do you know?" he asked, with a calm not to be thrust aside. "How do
you know it's not that? You can't be sure," he pursued, and there was
fairly cunning in forcing his friend upon it, cutting off all escape,
"but there are just fifty chances out of a hundred that it _is_ that. And
if it is," with a cold, impersonal sort of smile--"would you give very
much for my chances of sight?"
"You're talking like a fool!"--but beads of perspiration were on the
doctor's forehead. And then, the professional man getting himself in
hand: "You're overworked, Karl. You're nervous. Why I can fix this up for
you. I'll just--" but before that steady, understanding gaze he could not
go on.


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