CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW DICK LESTER TOOK HIS CHANCE.

There is a quiet street in a Melbourne suburb--a street lined with big trees, where in the long, hot days you can hear the soft cooing of wood pigeons; and yet so near the great highway of St. Kilda Road that the clang of the tram bells comes clearly. There are queer wild creatures there yet; the mopokes call at night in Fawkner Park, undisturbed by the racing motors along Toorak Road, and some quick-eyed people declare that they have seen 'possums dart across the tram lines. If you sleep out on a balcony, as wise folk do, you may see owls flit by, even while in the small hours the string of market carts from the country creeps into Melbourne, the horses plodding along steadily, while the tired drivers curl up on the seats asleep. But the carts do not come up the quiet street. It lies dreaming until the magpies in the Grammar School trees carol their morning song.

Back from the road in the quiet street stands a big house, girdled with wide verandahs. It is the quietest place of all, though at all hours of the day and night there are motors before its gate. Its wide lawns and gardens shelter behind tall pittosporum hedges; climbing roses and tecoma have clambered up the posts, making a screen to shield the balconies. It never sleeps, although it is so quiet; white-uniformed nurses flit here and there about it by night and day, and often the big glass dome of a room at the back blazes with light throughout the night, as busy surgeons fight Death over an unconscious form. In the daytime there are beds and stretchers under the trees on the lawns, or sheltered by gaily-striped tents; and people pass in and out, taking sheaves of flowers to the people within, or leading pale-faced convalescents home, to take up life anew. But it is a cheery place, as a house of healing should be; it had seemed to smile to Dick Lester when they brought him there from the ship, so brown and merry, after a week on deck, that it was hard to understand why he should lie so still.

Neil Fraser gave his verdict next day.

"It's for you to decide," he told Dick's parents. "There is a chance; I'll admit it's a slender one. If you decide to have no operation he will probably live a long time, as they told you before--always a cripple. Will he suffer? Yes, probably, at intervals--a good deal; and there is always a chance of worse trouble developing."

"And the operation?" John Lester said.

"It is a risk. I've done it successfully; I've seen as good a man as I am fail. Should it fail, it means a worse condition; possibly hastening the end. If it should succeed--well, Dick will walk out of the hospital."

Mrs. Lester drew a long breath.

"Will you tell me," she begged, "if you would advise us to have it done?"

"Ah, that's too much to ask me," he said gently. "That is surely only for you and his father to say. I can only tell you the chances."

There was silence for several minutes. Then the mother spoke, quickly.

"Then I say--do it!" she said. "I can't look Dick in the face if we do not give him every possible chance. I can't tell him he's a cripple for life without having a fight to save him. It isn't fair--it's like caging some wild, free thing. I know what Dick would say, if we gave him his choice."

Her husband took her hand and held it tightly.

"Yes, Dick would always choose the fight--he never yet lay down to anything," he said. "We'll give him his chance, dear. Can you get it over quickly, Fraser?"

"In two days," Neil Fraser said. He looked at them pityingly. "And you know I'll do my best."

They knew it on this sunny November morning as they wandered blindly up and down the quiet street; over to the roaring traffic of St. Kilda Road and back again; ever back to the big house where, with two surgeons to aid Neil Fraser, Dick was taking his last chance. They could hear nothing yet, they knew; it was too soon to look for any word from the glass-domed theatre at the back. Of that John Lester tried to keep his wife from thinking. They talked of Dick--of his merry baby days; of his first pony, of the happy years when life at Kurrajong had centred about him while he slipped from childhood into boyhood. He had looked only a little child when they kissed him that morning.

"We're going out for a little while," they had said. "You won't mind?"

"Oh, no!" Dick had answered, faintly surprised. There were several surprising things that morning, the worst being that no one had seemed to have time to bring him any breakfast. The nurse had laughed when he said he was hungry, telling him the cook had gone on strike; but he was nearly sure he saw one of them put her handkerchief to her eyes as she left the room. Perhaps she was worried over something, he had thought; he would not bother her any more about breakfast, anyway. Then his father and mother had come for that queer early visit, leaving again very soon. They had gone out quickly--but his mother had turned back from the door and kissed him again.

"God bless you, my darling!" she had whispered--and was gone.

He was thinking over it when Dr. Fraser had appeared beside him. They were great friends, and he grinned up at him.

"I say, is mother all right?"

"Quite all right," the doctor had said. "We've got to poke round you again a bit, Dick, old man, but we're not going to hurt you like we did last time--we'll put you to sleep instead. Just smell this--deep breaths, now." Something light had been slipped over his face; he had felt the doctor's hand over his, holding it in a firm, comforting clasp, while a sudden roaring filled his ears, and the world slipped away.

That was an hour ago--an hour since a nurse had run hastily to Mrs. Lester to whisper, "He's taken the anæsthetic beautifully, and the doctor says you're not to worry." And since then minutes had been ages to the man and woman who waited for another messenger. They set themselves walks, at first, round a block of streets, once, twice; all the time with a listening ear for hurrying feet that might be sent to fetch them; and when they came back to the end of the quiet street they found themselves walking more and more quickly, straining to catch the first glimpse of the gate where, perhaps, someone might be standing, ready to beckon them to hasten. And at last they could keep away no longer. They came to the hospital and walked up and down a quiet path, that had seen many other people tramp in just such suspense as theirs.

Mrs. Lester gave in at last. There was a garden seat under a flaming mass of bougainvillea; she sank upon it suddenly, and hid her face in her hands, not weeping, but shuddering from head to foot with convulsive tremors. Her husband put his arm round her, holding her closely, almost welcoming any sign of emotion after long weeks of unnatural calm. She pulled herself together after a while.

"It won't do--he may need us at any moment," she said. "John, how long is it?"

"Nearly two hours. They can't be much longer, dear heart."

"I can't walk any more--my knees have turned stupid," she said. "If I had something to do--anything----"

A woman turned in at the gate near them pushing a perambulator, in which the baby cried angrily. They had seen her before; a young mother whose little girl was in the hospital recovering from pneumonia. She came to see her each morning, leaving the baby boy asleep in the garden. But this morning the boy was considering a tooth that would not come through; he declined to sleep, and woke the echoes with his protests at being left. The poor young mother stood rocking him, her face furrowed with perplexity.

"Ah, you naughty boy!" they heard her murmur. "How am I going to see Winnie?"

John Lester took a quick stride forward.

"Lend my wife your baby," he said. "We'll look after him."

He picked up the child with a deft movement that made it clear that Dick's thirteen years had not been long enough to make him forget how to handle a baby. Mrs. Lester held out her hands for the crying bundle and held it to her, rocking it backwards and forwards and crooning brokenly. The baby struggled for a moment, and then gave in, putting out a dimpled hand to catch the lace at her breast; and she leaned down to him, holding him until she could touch the velvet-soft cheek. Her husband stood looking at them, a lump in his throat; the years slipped away, and she was a child-mother again, holding Dick to her, singing the little sleepy song he loved. He had been so proud of them both--his two babies, he had called them; and he had boasted that she had never grown up. There were lines in her face now, graven in the last three months; and in the glass-domed room his other baby lay, taking his last fighting chance; and he could help neither. He shut his lips on a groan, turning away.

Neil Fraser was coming across the grass, taking the flower-beds in his stride. He was pale and tired, but his eyes blazed with triumph. John Lester stared at him, and no words would come.

"It's all right!" Fraser said. He put out a hand to each, and suddenly grabbed the borrowed baby, for Mrs. Lester trembled so violently that he feared she would faint. "It's all right, I tell you! He's splendid--sleeping peacefully."

"And the operation?" John Lester uttered.

"Don't I tell you it's all right?" He threw back his head, with a laugh like a boy's. "There were complications, as well as what I thought, and I had to take chances--but Dick will be as fit as ever he was. He'll walk out of the hospital, Mrs. Lester--ah, poor soul!"

They caught her between them as she swayed forward. The baby was dumped unceremoniously on the grass, where, in sheer perversity, he lay kicking fat legs and chewing a clover blossom contentedly. Mrs. Lester came back to consciousness to find herself on the garden seat, the silver cup of a flask at her lips.

"Tell me again!" she whispered.

"I could tell you all day, for I don't mind admitting I'm a proud man!" Fraser said. "I don't think it's been done before. I had a case much the same in Munich, but there were, as I said, complications in Dick's case; but it worked out splendidly. He stood it well--not that I ever had any doubt about that; he's so tremendously fit, physically. And next year, unless you go hunting for scars on him, you won't need to remember that he was ever hurt!"

"When can we see him?" the father uttered.

"You can look at him whenever you like; he's back in bed, fast asleep, with a nurse watching him. And you can see him for five minutes this evening. I'll ring up to see how he is after lunch, and if you like I'll meet you here at five o'clock. Now I'm going to tell my old mother--you've no idea how keen she has been about Dick. She's coming to see him as soon as I'll let her!"

He wrung their hands in turn.

"We can't thank you," John Lester said huskily.

"There's no need; I've had the most entirely successful case I've ever handled. I ought to thank you for giving me such a chance. And I'm more glad than I can say--he's no end of a boy!"

His steps died away on the gravel. Mrs. Lester looked up at her husband.

"Will you go and just look at him?" she said. "I can't--my silly knees won't do as they're told, and I can't risk making a fuss. Just look at him for me, and come and tell me every little thing about him!"

"Sure you're all right if I leave you?"

"Quite sure."

There was only the baby in sight. He stooped suddenly and kissed her; they clung together for a moment, without speaking. Then he went away across the lawn. Mrs. Lester sat still for a moment; then she stooped, still trembling, and picked up the baby. She was holding him silently, her face against his, when the other mother came back. Across the little face they looked at each other.

"They told me your boy has come through all right," the baby's mother said. "Oh, I'm so glad! And my little girl is better."

"I'm so glad, too, for you," Mrs. Lester said. Suddenly the tears she had not shed for three months began to rain down her face, but she did not hide them. She looked through the mist of them at the other mother--who, being a mother, was crying too.

A big tear fell, presently, on the nose of the baby, who roared disapproval; whereupon they both fell to consoling him apologetically.

"I must take him away--he's so big, he'll make you tired," his mother said, gathering her son up proudly.

"Thank you for lending him to me," Mrs. Lester said. "I think he kept me from going mad. He's such a dear, comfortable baby--just what Dick was. How many teeth has he?"

The baby's mother told her, with other thrilling details--so engrossing that they did not hear Mr. Lester's step until he was beside them.

"He's just as peaceful as that baby is going to be in two minutes," he said, smiling at the little sleepy face. "And you're going to lie down as peacefully, too, the moment I can get you home. Come on, we must go and tell Merle that she need be 'Legs' no longer!"