The Last Gentleman by Walker Percy Page B

cuff and patting his gray hair.
    â€œWho?” murmured the engineer, also speaking straight ahead since he was not yet certain he was being addressed.
    â€œAren’t you assisting him in the puncture?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYou’re not the hematologist?”
    â€œNo sir.”
    â€œThey suspect a defect in the manufacture of the little blood cells in the marrow bones, like a lost step,” said the stranger cheerfully, rocking to and fro. “It don’t amount to much.”
    Two things were instantly apparent to the sentient engineer, whose sole gift, after all, was the knack of divining persons and situations. One was that he had been mistaken for a member of the staff. The other was that the stranger was concerned about a patient and that he, the stranger, had spent a great deal of time in the hospital. He had the air of one long used to the corridor, and he had developed a transient, fabulous, and inexpert knowledge of one disease. It was plain too that he imputed to the hospital staff a benevolent and omniscient concern for the one patient. It amounted to a kind of happiness, as if the misfortune beyond the door must be balanced by affectionate treatment here in the corridor. In hospitals we expect strangers to love us.
    An intern passed, giving them a wide berth as he turned into the ward, holding out his hand to fend them off good-naturedly.
    â€œDo you know him?” asked the old man.
    â€œNo sir.”
    â€œThat’s Dr. Moon Mullins. He’s a fine little fellow.”
    The illness must be serious, thought the engineer. He is too fond of everyone.
    The stranger was so wrapped up in cigar smoke and the loving kindness of the hospital that it was possible to look at him. He was old and fit. Ruddy sectors of forehead extended high into iron-colored hair. Though he was neatly dressed, he needed a shave. The stubble which covered his cheeks had been sprinkled with talcum powder and was white as frost. His suit, an old-fashioned seersucker with a broad stripe, gave off a fresh cotton-and-ironing-board smell that pierced the engineer’s memory. It reminded him of something but he could not think what.
    The engineer cleared his throat.
    â€œExcuse me, sir, but are you from Alabama?” He had caught a lilt in the old man’s speech, a caroling in the vowels which was almost Irish. And the smell. The iron-washpot smell. No machine in the world had ever put it there and nobody either but a colored washwoman working in her own back yard and sprinkling starch with a pine switch.
    â€œI was.” The old man took a wadded handkerchief from his pocket and knocked it against his nose.
    â€œFrom north Alabama?”
    â€œI was.” His yellow eye gleamed through the smoke. He fell instantly into the attitude of one who is prepared to be amazed. There was no doubt in his mind that the younger man was going to amaze him.
    â€œBirmingham? Gadsden?”
    â€œHalfway between,” cried the old man, his eye glittering like an eagle’s. “Wait a minute,” said he, looking at the engineer with his festive and slightly ironic astonishment. “Don’t I know you? Aren’t you—” snapping his fingers.
    â€œWill Barrett. Williston Bibb Barrett.”
    â€œOver in—” He shook his hand toward the southwest
    â€œIthaca. In the Mississippi Delta.”
    â€œYou’re Ed Barrett’s boy.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œLawyer Barrett. Went to Congress from Mississippi in nineteen and forty.” Now it was his turn to do the amazing. “Trained pointers, won at Grand Junction in—”
    â€œThat was my uncle, Fannin Barrett,” murmured the engineer.
    â€œFannin Barrett,” cried the other, confirming it. “I lived in Vicksburg in nineteen and forty-six and hunted with him over in Louisiana.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œChandler Vaught,” said the old man, swinging around at him. The hand he