II AN OUNCE OF WHISKEY OR AN OUNCE OF BRAINS The moment Ravant awoke to sanity at the hospital he demanded a drink of whiskey. “The doctor has forbidden it,” said the nurse. “Why?” shouted Ravant. “Your head. He thinks it would take you much longer to get well—perhaps prevent your recovery altogether.” “Call him!” Still in Ravant’s terrible voice. “I guess it’s my own head. And if I’d rather have an ounce of whiskey—more or less—than an ounce of brains—more or less—it’s my business and none of his.” The little, frightened nurse did what he asked, and Ravant said to the doctor very much what he had said to the nurse. And the doctor answered him precisely what the nurse had answered. “But,” he laughed in addition, “your head is certainly your own, and you are certainly sane enough to decide what you want done with it, though it is rather contrary to Dunglison’s ethics to let you. It doesn’t matter greatly either way, though. How much are you in the habit of taking?” “All I can buy,” snarled Ravant. The doctor laughed again and wrote a prescription for an ounce of whiskey. “You don’t care whether I live or die, do you?” asked Ravant, odiously. “Oh, quite as much as you do!” answered the doctor, with a certain jolly contempt for such a man. Then, to the nurse: “I don’t think it will be necessary for me to see your patient again. Take care that he gets all he needs. My original instructions will do till he is discharged.” “You don’t care either,” challenged Ravant, when the doctor had gone. “Yes—I care—very much,” said the brave little nurse. Ravant stared, then said: “Well—hurry that whiskey here!” And, presently, she brought it. Ravant saw only the hand which offered it to his famished soul. It trembled. As he took the glass he followed the arm up to the nurse’s face. That was very pale. When she was certain that he would drink it, she gasped and then choked down a bit of a sob. “Now, what’s the matter with you?” cried Ravant, with brutal irritation. “Noth—nothing,” faltered the nurse. “You lie,” said Ravant. “I told you that it is my own head. Why don’t you want me to drink it?” “Drink it!” begged the nurse, now in terror of him. “Please do!” “I won’t! You’re both too dam’ anxious!” He flung the frail glass against the wall, where it was broken. Then he turned his back upon the nurse, and, gripping the iron rods of his bed, bent them until they doubled and parted. He slept a little presently—breathing like a wounded beast. When he woke the little nurse was wiping up the spilled liquor. The terrible fragrance infested his very soul. “Open the window!” Ravant shouted. “You are torturing me!” The girl did this. “Why did you make me smell the dam’ stuff?” Then, a little more gently, before she could answer: “Thank you. I can’t stand the smell of it—not the smell.” The nurse laid a brave hand on his. “I guess you’re the right sort,” he said hoarsely. “Put it there!”