The Final Diagnosis

“Goddam,” he said, “you’re obstinate.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You’ll do it then?”

“I’ll do it for four days—no more.”

Vivian shook her head. “Six—no less.”

“Make it five,” he said, “and you’ve got a deal.”

She hesitated and Mike said, “It’s positively my best offer.”

Vivian laughed; it was the first time she had. “All right. Five days from this moment.”

“Like hell from this moment!” Mike said. “Maybe ten minutes from now. First I’ve got a little storing up to do. For a young fellow with my hot blood five days is a long time.”

He moved the bedside chair closer, then reached out. It was a long kiss, alternately passionate and tender.

At the end Vivian made a grimace and broke away. She sighed and eased herself to a new position in the bed.

Mike inquired anxiously, “Is something wrong?”

Vivian shook her head. “Not really.” Then she asked him, “Mike, where have they got my leg—the gone one, I mean?”

He seemed startled, then told her, “In Pathology—in a refrigerator, I expect.”

Vivian drew in a long breath, then expelled it slowly. “Mike darling,” she said, “please go downstairs and scratch the foot.”

The hospital’s board room was crowded. News of the emergency meeting had gone swiftly around the hospital, and physicians not attending Three Counties that day had been notified in their downtown offices and at home. Rumors of Joe Pearson’s downfall and his impending departure had also traveled with equal speed and had been the subject of a buzz of discussion which had quieted as Pearson entered, the administrator and David Coleman with him.

Kent O’Do

Looking toward the door, O’Do

O’Do

As O’Do

“To begin with, let’s summarize.” Harvey Chandler was holding his page of notes, and his glance moved theatrically around the room. Harvey’s enjoying this, O’Do

At the mention of food handlers O’Do

“Excuse me, Doctor.”

“Yes?” Chandler’s tone made it plain the interruption was not appreciated.

Gently O’Do

He could sense the other man’s resentment. Harvey Chandler, who was virtually equal to O’Do

Suavely, but firmly, O’Do

Chandler shot him a glance which said: We’ll discuss this later in private. Then, after a barely perceptible pause, he went on, “For the benefit of those of you who are not familiar with typhoid—and I realize there will be some, because there isn’t too much of it around nowadays—I’ll run over the principal early-stage symptoms. Generally speaking, there’s a rising fever, chills, and a slow pulse. There’s also a low blood count and, naturally, the characteristic rose spots. In addition to all that a patient will probably complain of a dull headache, no appetite, and general aching. Some patients may say they’re drowsy in the daytime and that they’re restless at night. One thing to look out for also is bronchitis; that’s quite common with typhoid, and you may encounter nosebleed too. And, of course, a tender, swollen spleen.”

The chief of medicine sat down. O’Do

Lucy Grainger asked, “I take it that typhoid shots are being arranged.”

“Yes,” Chandler said, “for all employees and staff, also patients who are well enough to have them.”

“What about kitchen arrangements?” The question was from Bill Rufus.

O’Do

Until this moment there had been background noises in the room—fidgeting, the movement of chairs, murmurs of conversation aside from the main discussion. But now there was a hush as eyes turned curiously to where, halfway down the long table, Joe Pearson sat. Since entering he had not spoken but had remained quite still, his eyes fixed directly ahead. For once he had no cigar lighted, and the effect was like the absence of a familiar trade-mark. Even now, as his name was called, he made no move.

O’Do