IT had lately become common chatter at Brightwood Hospital--better known for three hundred miles around Detroit as Hudson's Clinic--that the chief was all but dead on his feet. The whole place buzzed with it.
All the way from the inquisitive solarium on the top floor to the garrulous kitchen in the basement, little groups--convalescents in wheeled chairs, nurses with tardy trays, lean internes on rubber soles, grizzled orderlies trailing damp mops--met to whisper and separated to disseminate the bad news. Doctor Hudson was on the verge of a collapse.
On the verge?...Indeed! One lengthening story had it that on Tuesday he had fainted during an operation--mighty ticklish piece of business, too--which young Watson, assisting him, was obliged to complete alone. And the worst of it was that he was back at it again, next morning, carrying on as usual.
