Here am I, a more or less sensible
young woman, come to ask you, a man whose time is worth--well, let's say
a thousand dollars a second--what you intend doing about those hospital
interns getting drunk last night!"
"My dear Miss Georgia,"--brushing out his hand in a characteristic way
which seemed to be sweeping things aside--"go back to your paper and say
that for all I care every intern in Chicago may get drunk every night in
the week."
"_Bully_ story!"
"And furthermore, every paper in Chicago may go to the devil, and every
hospital may go trailing along for company. Oh Lord--I'm tired."
He looked it. It seemed to Georgia she had never understood what
tiredness meant before.
"Such a hard day?" Professor Hastings asked.
"Oh--just one of the days when everything goes wrong. Rotten
business--anyway. Eternally patching things up. I'd like to be a--well, a
bridge builder for awhile, and see how it felt to get good stuff to start
with."
"And now, to round out your day pleasantly," laughed Professor Hastings,
"I've come to tell you about a boy out there at the university who is in
very bad need of patching up.
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