“Doctor,” said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, “they say in the hospital that you have stated that I cannot live.  Now, I should wish to know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most interested party.”

“Why, my man,” said the doctor, “you certainly are in great danger, and if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do.”

“That’s a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not, doctor?” replied Spicer.

“I fear, my good man, there is very little.”

“Tell me plainly, sir, if you please,” replied Spicer; “is there any?”

“I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it’s unpleasant to say so, but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth.”

“Well, sir, that is honest.  May I ask you how long I may expect to live?”

“That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more.  Would you like the chaplain to come and see you?”

“Thank you, sir; when I do, I’ll send for him.”

The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients.  I was silent.  At last Spicer spoke.

“Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me.  Somehow or another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself, the pain has been so dreadful.  Well, we can die but once, and I shall die game.”

“Spicer,” said I, “that you will die without fear I know very well; but still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the sins you have committed, and praying for pardon.  We have all of us, the very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?”

“No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side.  What’s done is done, and can’t be undone.  Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep.”

“Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?”

“Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps me from thinking.”

I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand.  Before I went home I sought out old Anderson and told him what had passed.  “He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you; and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject.  It is dreadful that a man should die in that way.”

“Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!” ejaculated Anderson; “he talks of dying game—­that is to say, he defies his Maker.  Yes, Jack, I will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live.  I will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse my coming again.”

I went home.  I was not in a very gay humor, for the sight of Spicer’s leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression upon me.  I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present of.  I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.