At half-past twelve he did an appendix operation on the only son of his best friend.  At one o’clock he did another appendix operation.  Whom it was on didn’t matter.  It couldn’t have been worse on—­any one.  At half-past one no one remembered to feed him.  At two, in another man’s operation, he saw the richest merchant in the city go wafted out into eternity on the fumes of ether taken for the lancing of a stye.  At three o’clock, passing the open door of one of the public waiting-rooms, an Italian peasant woman rushed out and spat in his face because her tubercular daughter had just died at the sanitarium where the Senior Surgeon’s money had sent her.  Only in this one wild, defiling moment did the lust for alcohol surge up in him again, surge clamorously, brutally, absolutely mercilessly, as though in all the known cleansants of the world only interminable raw whisky was hot enough to cauterize a polluted consciousness.  At half past three, as soon as he could change his clothes again, he re-broke and re-set an acrobat’s priceless leg.  At five o’clock, more to rest himself than anything else, he went up to the autopsy amphitheater to look over an exhibit of enlarged hearts, whose troubles were permanently over.

At six o’clock just as he was leaving the great building with all its harrowing sights, sounds, and smells, a peremptory telephone call from one of the younger surgeons of the city summoned him back into the stuffy office again.

“Dr. Faber?”

“Yes.”

“This is Merkley!”

“Yes.”

“Can you come immediately and help me with that fractured skull case I was telling you about this morning?  We’ll have to trepan right away!”

“Trepan nothing!” grunted the Senior Surgeon.  “I’ve got to go home early to-night—­and help catch a canary.”

“Catch a—­what?” gasped the younger surgeon.

“A canary!” grinned the Senior Surgeon mirthlessly.

“A—­what?” roared the younger man.

“Oh, shut up, you damned fool!  Of course I’ll come!” said the Senior Surgeon.

There was no “boy” left in the Senior Surgeon when he reached home that night.

Gray with road-travel, haggard with strain and fatigue, it was long, long after the rosy sunset time,—­long, long after the yellow supper light, that he came dragging up through the sweet-scented dusk of the garden and threw himself down without greeting of any sort on the top step of the piazza where the White Linen Nurse’s skirts glowed palely through the gloom.

“Well, I put a canary bird back into its cage for you!” he confided laconically.  “It was a little chap’s soul.  It sure would have gotten away before morning.”

“Who was the man that tried to turn it loose—­this time?” asked the White Linen Nurse.

“I didn’t say that anybody did!” growled the Senior Surgeon.

“Oh,” said the White Linen Nurse.  “Oh.”  Quite palpably a little shiver of flesh and starch went rustling through her.  “I’ve had a wonderful day, too!” she confided softly.  “I’ve cleaned the attic and darned nine pairs of your stockings and bought a sewing-machine—­and started to make you a white silk negligee shirt for a surprise!”