I operated on both
Lessing and Tyler. Both of those fellows have a notion they owe their
lives to me. That makes people feel rather close to one, you know. But
then, of course, you don't know--why should you? And, dear me--there's
that rich old patient of mine, Burley. Now isn't it strange,"--turning
genially to Lane, as if merely interesting him in a philosophical
proposition--"how one thing leads to another? I fear Burley may not be so
interested in making that gift to the new medical building, if he knows
I've cut loose from the place. The president will feel rather sore
about that, too,--you know how the president is about such things. But
then,"--shrugging his shoulders indifferently--"he needn't feel sore at
me."
Dr. George Lane was swallowing very hard. Though learned, he was not
dull. Word by word he had drunk in the bitter truth that this big, dark,
gruff, ill-mannered man was not to be put down with impunity. Call it
bullying--any hard name you would, there was no evading the fact that it
was power in sledge hammer strokes.
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