He examined the boy with a vague, returning ghost of professional interest.
"Curvature of the spine," he said at length.
"No cure?" asked the Maestro.
"No, he'll die; it may take several years."
"Will he suffer?"
The surgeon pointed to the child. The little body was vibrating in exquisite torture and cold beads of sweat were welling up on the stoical Malay face.
That night the Maestro went to the Post Hospital and asked the steward for some morphine.
"The dose is" the steward started to say, giving him the pellets.
"I know, I know," the Maestro broke out hastily. "I've used it often."
He did not know the dose, but he did not want to know it.
He went back to Carnota. He found him with his sharp knees pressed tight against his chin.
He gave him several pellets. He did not know what was the proper dose, but he knew that this one was surely a highly improper one, and that is all he wanted to know.
The little boy had gone to sleep with a deep, restful sigh.
And now he was there, beneath the pink-and-blue rosettes.
