“But then I’ve got to learn sometime,” he remarked carelessly, while he tested the edge of the razor on his thumbnail. “There’s one good thing about shaving a ‘deader,’--if you cut him he can’t holler.... There ain’t much to shave right here,” he observed, rubbing his cold, rough hand over the pit of my stomach, “but I’m supposed to run over it just the same.” He hoped I would excuse him if he accidentally “cut” or “pulled” a little. “But then I guess even if I’d nip you a bit it wouldn’t be a thing to what they’ll do to you when they get you on the table tomorrow morning,” he added with a snicker. From that on to the end of the shaving operation my feelings can better be imagined than described. My only grain of comfort was that his razor was so dull that if it slipped it wouldn’t cut very deep. When he had finished he sat down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to regale me with anecdotes and personal experiences. He had recently been a cab driver, but business in that line was dull in winter, and the old barber at the hospital having suddenly died he applied for the position and the Sisters had accepted him without questioning his qualifications. “I guess the old girls here think a barber’s a barber,” he laughed. “Maybe you’ll think I’ve got a hell of a nerve, but you know when a fellow’s up against it he can’t be choosey about a job.” “My friend,” said I, “you have nothing on me. A hospital patient has no choice between a barber and a blacksmith.” He looked at me anxiously. “You wouldn’t squeal on me, would you?” “Squeal? No--I’m glad you didn’t apply for the job of house surgeon.” He drew a deep breath of relief. “Thanks. I hope I can get by for a few days till I sort of get the hang o’ things.” At length he got up, stretched his arms and yawned. “Well, I’ll be going. Good luck to you, old scout,” he said; “I hope by the next time you’re operated on I’ll have the barber business down pat.” Next morning I was awakened at seven o’clock by my day nurse, who set about decorating me for the operation. Those who have been through these dismal preliminaries will need no rehearsal of the sensations; and those who have not, had best be left in ignorance, with the hope that they may never know. I wondered if I were going to meet the famous Doctor Will, or if, like a cold-blooded executioner, he would appear and after performing his work, disappear like a phantom at daybreak. I had heard that operating was such an impersonal affair with him that he paid no attention whatever to the identity of the individual he operated on, either before or after the act; that he simply came to the operating room at the appointed time, and with his several assistants and all the facts in the case before him he proceeded with his work as one would carve a roast of beef without knowing or caring anything about the critter to which it had belonged.