The Waterbury Democrat., 1934-08-10

"Anotheri" Doctor James Chalnor, chief surgeon of Mercy hospitals stepped back from the operating table with a scowl of disgust. He tugged at his rubber gloves, throwing disdainful glance of finality at the still, small figure on the long white slab.
 "Darn these kid cases! Why don't the internal bats stay off the streets? Call the morgue, Miss Meade"
 Trimly neat in her immaculate white uniform, Mary Meade shiv- cred. Despite her training, such creeps. Dr Chalnor's incredible cruel dismissal of the little dead waif, victim of hit-and-run driver, was characteristic. Mary Meade hated him.
 All the nurses hated him. His studied indifference to suffering challenged belief. He was a devil. A devil with horns! A monster de- void of feeling, incapable of pity. His kill was miraculous. Watch ing him, Mary Meade would think of Christ and His healing hands Then her mute tribute to sublimity would be shattered by some enor- mity of speech or action that mocked glory. He worked with his tongue in his cheek-damn him!
 they were bringing in another.
 Merrill of the ambulance squad spoke briskly. "This'll be close. Doc Woman,s due to have baby. Truck hit her and her husband. Killed the man. Nobody knows"
 pr Chalnor grunted, cramming himself into another robe. The woman was undressed and placed on the operating table. Under the glaring lights she lay white, uncon- scious. nude. After a gamblers interlude attendants came and wheeled her away to the maternity ward. The baby stayed behind, its soul with it's father in Valhalla.
 Mary Meade cried.
 pr Chalnor interrupted coldly. Don't be fool! Pity doesn't pro- long lives. You don't mend bodies with tears. Sympathy is weakness. Forget it. Take a bromide and lie down. You need a rest"
 'You g-go to the devil!" Mary Meade's voice rose. T don't need a rest. Somebody's got to do some thing for that poor woman. When she wakes to find both husband and baby gone she'll die and"
 "so what? She'll die anyway. We've done all we can. Why worry?" He broke off with sur prised gasp. Mary Meade had swung her little fist and landed it squarely in his eye.
 Biff.
 The door to the corridor slam med as she flung herself from the room.
 Dr James Chalnor blinked. He pau Aio ollSillOI to lHe OIneT nurse who, aghast, huddled in a little group against the wall. He did not put his hand to his face. astonishment restraining the nat ural impulse. The. eye began to swell rapidly. After a moment of obvious indecision he went out. One of the astounded nurses recov- cred naturalnes with a choking giggle. Gone after a beefsteak for that shiner," she whispered ex-
 The huge maternity ward was quiet, a dimly lit vista of meticul- ously spaced cots holding vague, shapeless forms. Dr. Chalnor sur veyed it doubtfully, aware of an odd silence, the absence of any white-clad attendant. Near where he paused a mother nursed her lately born infant, smile of beati- fic happiness on her slightly bovine. Slavic-featured face. The baby was unattractive. He drowned, turning aside to his last patient.
 The woman's eyes were closed. lic SitChcu IeT puiSe, TedulnS US message. A few minutes-half an hour at most. Probably without regaining consciousness. He shrug- ged. Better that way.
 Better. The eyes opened-sud- denly. She smiled. Her face, miraculously unscathed, was beau tiful. Back in the operating room he had not noticed.
 "Jimmy,!"
 He knew. She was in that shadowy land where those passing behind the veil sometimes finger briefly. upborn on the wings of ecstacy, buoSed on an ebbing tide of emotion.
 Jimmy"