"Oh--so, so. Pretty fair, I guess." His face settled into a gloom then,
but almost immediately he roused himself from it to say, in a voice more
cheerful than spontaneous: "They'll be finished in a couple of weeks. I'm
both glad and sorry. Don't know just what I'll go at then."
Again he seemed to settle into the gloom which the doctor could see was
ever there waiting to receive him. But again he roused himself almost
immediately. Was it this way with the man all the time? A continuous
fight against surrendering? "But I'm mighty thankful I've had the books,"
he said. "They've pulled me through the winter, and they've enabled me to
make a living. Lord, but a man would hate not to make a living!" he
concluded, straightening up a trifle, more like the Karl of old.
The sheer pathos of it had never come home to the doctor as it did with
that. A man who should have stood upon the very mountain peaks of fame
now proudly claiming that he was able to make a living! But if it brought
home the pathos of the situation it also brought new sense of the manhood
of Karl Hubers.
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