Hans Brinker [78]
of what is passing. Then they were alone in the bare, clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.
Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans is there also. He stands near the window, respectfully waiting until he shall be accosted.
"You see, Vollenhoven," said Dr. Boekman, "it is a clear case of--" And here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate.
After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.
"It is probably like Rip Donderdunck's case," he exclaimed in a low, mumbling tone. "He fell from the top of Voppelploot's windmill. After the accident the man was stupid and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von Choppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it--a splendid operation! You see, according to Celsius--" And here the doctor again went off into Latin.
"Did the man live?" asked the assistant respectfully.
Dr. Boekman scowled. "That is of no consequence. I believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case? Consider a moment how--" And he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.
"But mynheer," gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his favorite depths. "Mynheer, you have other engagements today, three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the canal."
"The tumor can wait," said the doctor reflectively. "That is another beautiful case--a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two months--magnificent tumor, sir!"
The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where he was.
Vollenhoven made another attempt.
"This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?"
"Ah, indeed, certainly," stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that he had been talking rather off the point. "Certainly, that is--I hope so."
"If anyone in Holland can, mynheer," murmured the assistant with honest bluntness, "it is yourself."
The doctor looked displeased, growled out a tender request for the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.
This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on surgical matters. "One can never tell," he said, "what moment the creatures will scream or faint." Therefore he explained Raff Brinker's case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the patient.
Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed.
"It may KILL the father--did you say, mynheer?" he exclaimed at last in a trembling whisper.
"It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah! If boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use."
Hans looked blank at this compliment.
"It would be of no use," repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly. "A great operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is, 'Will it kill?'"
"The question is EVERYTHING to us, mynheer," said Hans with tearful dignity.
Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.
"Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one's father killed--of course I am a fool."
"Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?"
"Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like THAT," said the doctor, snapping his fingers.
"And the operation
Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans is there also. He stands near the window, respectfully waiting until he shall be accosted.
"You see, Vollenhoven," said Dr. Boekman, "it is a clear case of--" And here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate.
After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.
"It is probably like Rip Donderdunck's case," he exclaimed in a low, mumbling tone. "He fell from the top of Voppelploot's windmill. After the accident the man was stupid and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von Choppem performed an operation upon this Donderdunck and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it--a splendid operation! You see, according to Celsius--" And here the doctor again went off into Latin.
"Did the man live?" asked the assistant respectfully.
Dr. Boekman scowled. "That is of no consequence. I believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case? Consider a moment how--" And he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.
"But mynheer," gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his favorite depths. "Mynheer, you have other engagements today, three legs in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the canal."
"The tumor can wait," said the doctor reflectively. "That is another beautiful case--a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two months--magnificent tumor, sir!"
The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where he was.
Vollenhoven made another attempt.
"This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?"
"Ah, indeed, certainly," stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that he had been talking rather off the point. "Certainly, that is--I hope so."
"If anyone in Holland can, mynheer," murmured the assistant with honest bluntness, "it is yourself."
The doctor looked displeased, growled out a tender request for the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.
This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on surgical matters. "One can never tell," he said, "what moment the creatures will scream or faint." Therefore he explained Raff Brinker's case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the patient.
Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed.
"It may KILL the father--did you say, mynheer?" he exclaimed at last in a trembling whisper.
"It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah! If boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use."
Hans looked blank at this compliment.
"It would be of no use," repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly. "A great operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is, 'Will it kill?'"
"The question is EVERYTHING to us, mynheer," said Hans with tearful dignity.
Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.
"Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one's father killed--of course I am a fool."
"Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?"
"Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like THAT," said the doctor, snapping his fingers.
"And the operation