Evening of the Good Samaritan Read Free Page B

who hate him enough.”
    “And you are not even a Jew,” Mueller said, and gave him a hug. “It is wonderful. I love this man.”
    Fitzgerald cleared his throat. He was distinctly embarrassed. Foreigners were much too emotional, especially Jews.
    Hogan, also embarrassed, grinned, which made him look boyish and thus closer to his actual age than his infirmities ordinarily allowed.
    “I have interrupted you?” Mueller said.
    “Nothing that can’t wait,” said Hogan.
    “Why should it wait?” Mueller took from his pocket, leaving the pocket gaping, a paper bag. “I have here the sweets and the nut-meats, and biscuits I have already made into crumbs. My girls will be waiting at home like mice to collect them.” He shook Fitzgerald’s hand heartily and then took Hogan’s hand in both his own. “Jonathan, I am very proud of the President of this University, like the President of the country …”
    “So am I. Good night, Erich,” Hogan said affectionately.
    Mueller rollicked off, pausing soon, having something to say to almost everyone he passed.
    Fitzgerald said dryly, “He’s generous with his comparisons.”
    “With everything. He has a young wife and four girls, did you know? A confident man obviously—in America.” He glanced at Fitzgerald from under drawn brows. In his own way he was baiting the man who often baited him.
    Fitzgerald said, “A physicist, isn’t he?”
    Hogan nodded.
    “I envy him,” Fitzgerald said. “Oh, not the four daughters. God knows one’s trial enough, but that abstract world of his, dabs of light on a black screen, a multiplicity of mathematical equations, a kind of music of the spheres and all so marvelously removed from responsibility in this unhappy world. How fortunate a refuge!”
    Hogan denied himself contemplation of the man’s fatuousness. “You have a touch of the poet, professor.”
    “My Irish origins.”
    Hogan doubted he was that proud of them.
    “You wanted to ask me something, Hogan. Do. I don’t care for crowds like this. You’re accustomed to crowds, of course.”
    “I’ve grown accustomed to them, yes,” Hogan said blandly. “Why, I have a son, professor, the younger of two—the older boy’s all right. For that matter, so is Marcus—all right. But this may amuse you, I’m a little fearful of where his social conscience may lead him.” To a man like Fitzgerald the words would have distinct political coloring. “I’m father enough, you see, to want certain of the solid opportunities for him. He’s a doctor of medicine. Wants to be a surgeon. What he needs is further residency in a good hospital.”
    Fitzgerald was stunned that Jonathan Hogan should come to him for help. If he had had his way, Hogan would have been dismissed from the University. He had made no secret of the opinion. It was a peculiar irony that it was he who was now silenced in effect, not Hogan, and the obligation of sportsmanship put upon him. And yet, the more he thought about it, he found an odd satisfaction in Hogan’s having come to him.
    “Where did he go to school?”
    “Rodgers University.”
    “You’ve always looked to the East, haven’t you?” He could not resist the barb. “May I ask where he interned?”
    Hogan named a small hospital on the west side of Traders City. “He’s had a couple of years’ residency there, too. But their surgery is, shall we say, conservative.”
    “And what is he doing now?”
    “Trying to get the tuberculars out of the county jail into the county sanatorium.”
    Fitzgerald gave a short laugh. Hogan’s directness was disarming. “I suppose you’d like me to speak to Winthrop. Is that it?”
    “I thought you might like to talk to the boy first. See if he’s worth your intervention.”
    Few men, and especially Walter Fitzgerald, can resist doing an enemy a kindness. Hogan had chosen his moment well, and only a little cynically. He suspected, as did a number of people, a relationship to exist between Alexander Winthrop and