“Oh, my God!” surrendered the Senior Surgeon, “do it your own--damned way! Only--only--” His voice cracked raspingly. “Steady! Steady there!” said the White Linen Nurse. Except for a sudden odd pucker at the end of her nose her expression was still perfectly serene. “Now begin at the beginning,” she begged. “Quick! Tell me everything just the way I must do it! Quick! quick! quick!” Twice the Senior Surgeon’s lips opened and shut with a vain effort to comply with her request. “But you can’t do it,” he began all over again; “it isn’t possible. You haven’t got the mind.” “Maybe I haven’t,” said the White Linen Nurse; “but I’ve got the memory. _Hurry!_” “_Creak!_” said the funny little something in the machinery. “Oh, get in there quick!” surrendered the Senior Surgeon. “Sit down behind the wheel!” he shouted after her flying footsteps. “Are you there? For God’s sake, are you there? Do you see those two little levers where your right hand comes? For God’s sake, don’t you know what a lever is? Quick now! Do just what I tell you!” A little jerkily then, but very clearly, very concisely, the Senior Surgeon called out to the White Linen Nurse just how every lever, every pedal, should be manipulated to start the car. Absolutely accurately, absolutely indelibly, the White Linen Nurse visualized each separate detail in her abnormally retentive mind. “But you can’t possibly remember it,” groaned the Senior Surgeon. “You can’t possibly. And probably the damned car’s _bust_ and won’t start, anyway, and--” Abruptly the speech ended in a guttural snarl of despair. “Don’t be a--blight!” screamed the White Linen Nurse. “I’ve never forgotten anything yet, sir!” Very tensely she straightened up suddenly in her seat. Her expression was no longer even remotely pleasant. Along her sensitive, fluctuant nostrils the casual crinkle of distaste and suspicion had deepened suddenly into sheer dilating terror. “Left foot--press down--hard--left pedal,” she began to singsong to herself. “No, _right_ foot--_right_ foot!” corrected the Little Girl, blunderingly from somewhere close in the grass. “Inside lever--pull--’way--back!” persisted the White Linen Nurse, resolutely, as she switched on the current. “No, _outside_ lever! _Outside! Outside!_” contradicted the Little Girl. “Shut your damned mouth!” screeched the White Linen Nurse, her hand on the throttle as she tried the self-starter. Bruised as he was, wretched, desperately endangered there under the car, the Senior Surgeon could almost have grinned at the girl’s terse, unconscious mimicry of his own most venomous tones. Then with all the forty-eight lusty, ebullient years of his life snatched from his lips like an untasted cup, and one single noxious, death-flavored second urged, forced, crammed down his choking throat, he felt the great car quicken and start.