The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the
various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building,
the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the
glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the "red
lights," the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in
British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through
the snowy night.

At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first
saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying
out, "Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!" Swipey, the
saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.

"What have you there, Tommy?" he asked.

"It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there,
Scotty?" There was no answer. "The saints be good to us! Are ye alive
at all?" He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he
found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer doctor?"

"Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. "Have you, Shorty?"

"Yes," replied the man called Shorty. "He's in there with the boys."

Tommy swore a great oath. "Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty
suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!"

"He's not that way," replied Swipey, "our doctor."

"Not much he ain't!" cried Shorty. "But he's into the biggest game with
'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp."

"Fer the love av Hivin git him!" cried Tommy. "The man is dyin'. Here,
min, let's git him in."

"There's no place here for a sick man," said the saloon-keeper.

"What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!"

"Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time." An angry
murmur ran through the men about the door. "Take him up to the
bunk-house," said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths.
"What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man?
How do you know what he's got?"

"What differ does it make what he's got?" retorted Tommy. "Blank yer
dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money
ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?" he
cried, appealing to the crowd. "Ye can't let him die on the street!"

Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar
of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men
with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for
which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western
professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair
of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair
of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from
his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the
last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had
a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made
but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way
to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time
to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death,
colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set
and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full
of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.

"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not
a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor
remained unmoved.

"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty.

"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who
had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but
who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.

"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to
death, an' we don't know what to do with him."

The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along
soon."

"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to
death."

The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?"
He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to
assert itself.

"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't
swallow. An' we can't git him in."

The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to
quit."

A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.

"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is
about to lose a bone. "You've got to give us a chance."

"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this
tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece.
I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a
dollar, and quit. Come on."

The greatness of the opportunity staggered them.

Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!" "Give us
your cards!" Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made
up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless
excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake.

"Now, then, show down," growled "Mexico."

The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their
hands. He had won. With an oath "Mexico" made a grab for the pile,
reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the
doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak "Mexico" was
lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair.

"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," said
the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them
down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?"

"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The
doctor passed him on a run.

"What does this mean?" he cried. "Why haven't you got him inside
somewhere?"

"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the bloody haythen
wudn't let him in."

"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the
saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door.

"He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?"

"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes. Here,
take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now."

Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to
do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.

"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick
about it."

Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh? Want a
bath in it next, I suppose."

"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, clear
out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty." Without hurry, but
with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed
between heated blankets. "Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his
throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back."

He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm
to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two
hot-water bottles.

"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full
of hot water for me."

"What is it, Doctor?" cried Shorty anxiously.

"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty
knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift,
deft movements the doctor went about his work.

"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin.
It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed
infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor
chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way." Again he
filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second
injection. "There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a
man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty,
don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here
within an hour." Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's
name?"

"I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I
think."

"All right. Now, go and get the teamster."

The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, no
chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!" he muttered, as he
strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get
his breath.

After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction
of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had
given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase
his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he
could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was
simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man
opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and
leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was
making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear.
Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay.

"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The eyes
gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the
pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had
followed every movement expressed satisfaction.

"Do you want me to read it?"

It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing
gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing,
love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's
fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never
moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor
put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble.
The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's
bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only
for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face.

"Something else in your pocket?"

The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came
to a large worn pocketbook.

"This?"

With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket
he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes
of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his
hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to
question.

"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes."
The eyes remained wide open. "No? You want me to do something for you?
To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall write to your mother and
send all your things and tell them about you." A smile spread over the
face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they
opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The
lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word
"Thank."

"Thank who? The teamster?"

The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers.

"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the
doctor. "Anything else?"

The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon
the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning,
till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more,
putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words,
"Mother--home," and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling.

"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And once more
a glad smile lit up the distorted face.

For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through
the thin partition, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken
song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the
door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After
the spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his
breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their
appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening
intently, he heard the word, "Pray." The doctor's pale face flushed
quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, "I'm
no good at that." Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and
again the doctor caught the words, "Jesus, tender--." It had been the
doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips.
He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the
eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him to begin.

"All right," said the doctor through his set teeth, "I'll do it."

And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn
silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of
that ancient child's prayer, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." At the
third verse,


"Let my sins be all forgiven,
Bless the friends I love so well,
Take me when I die to heaven,
Happy there with Thee to dwell."


there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content,
and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer
had come, "Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor Scotty! Out from the
sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been
taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more
out forever.

Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears.
As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply
about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping their
eyes and struggling with their sobs.

"Confound you, Shorty!" burst forth the doctor wrathfully, "what in the
mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead
man before?" The doctor was clearly in a rage. During the weeks
Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show anything but a
perfectly cold and self-composed face. "Is this the teamster?" continued
the doctor. "Come in here. You see that man? Someone has murdered him.
Who sent him down here through this storm? How long had he been ill?
Have you a doctor up there? Are there any more sick? Why don't you speak
up? What's your name?" In an angry flood the questions poured forth upon
the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. "Why don't you speak?" said the
doctor again.

Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to
require least thought to answer. "Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An'
sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the
man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles,
an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker."

"Have you no doctor up there?"

"Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste that
he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the
pig."

"Are there any more sick?"

"Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than
poor Scotty there, God rest his sowl!"

The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking
rapidly, "Go and bring to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say not
a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he said, turning to Tommy, "can
you start back in an hour?"

"I can that same, if I must."

"You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get
something to eat."

In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room.

"This man," said the doctor, "is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear,
Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, and you
will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate
this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further
danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2
to-night."

"To-night, doctor!" cried the foreman. "It's blowing a regular blizzard.
Can't you wait till morning?"

"There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. "The chances are it's
diphtheria."

In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp
possessed.

"Have you had something to eat, Tommy?" inquired the doctor, stepping
out from the saloon.

"That's what I have," replied Tommy.

"All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep."

"Not if I know it, begob!" said Tommy. "I'll stay wid yez. It's mesilf
that knows a man whin I see him."

And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing
to find in the call to a fight with death that excitement without which
it seemed he could not live.




XVII

THE FIGHT WITH DEATH


At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition.
The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed
to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was
almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant
a serious reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract.

The foreman, Craigin, was a man from "across the line," skilled in
railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a
"driver." He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and
gifted in large measure with the power of command. He knew his business
thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of the machinery and
men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the
line could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men
he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what was called
his "scrap-heap policy." When any part of the machinery ceased to do
first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery,
so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must
be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human
nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him
of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to
a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp.
Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they
dreaded to fall under his displeasure.

The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce
and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry
weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was
not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the
mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After
the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all
waited the warm weather of spring with anxiety.

On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the
team.

"Where are your stables, Tommy?"

"Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house."

"Good Lord!" murmured the doctor. "How many men have you here?"

"Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the road."

"What are your sanitary arrangements?"

"What's that?"

"I mean how do you--what are your arrangements for keeping the camp
clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men
living together without some sanitary arrangements."

"Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the
week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near
the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs."

"And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?"

"It is that same."

"And why was it built so close as that?"

"Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av
it."

The doctor gave it up. "Drive on," he said. "But what a beautiful spot
for a camp right there on that level."

"Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer
ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer
mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom.

"Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would
be a fine spot for the camp."

"It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is."

As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he
dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of
that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede
followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.

"Hello, Yonie!" cried Tommy. "What's afther gittin' ye up so early?"

"It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat.

The doctor sprang from the sleigh. "Let me look at your throat."

"It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede
submitted to the examination.

The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping
through the treetops, and looked into his throat. "My man, you go right
back to bed quick."

"No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. "Big work to-day, boss say. He
not like men sick."

"You hear me," said the doctor sharply. "You go back to bed. Where's
your doctor?"

"He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," said Tommy, pointing
the way.

"Never mind now. Where are your sick men?"

"De seeck mans?" replied the cook. "She's be hall overe. On de
bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den
seeck mans hall aroun'."

"What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?"

"Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But
she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's
what you call lak' one beas'."

The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern
swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the
picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern.

"Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your
throats, men."

"Dis de docteur, men," said the cook.

A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with
each examination.

"Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this
cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp."

"Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink
of it would make a well man sick."

"And is there no place else?"

"No. Unless it's the stables," said another man; "they're not quite so
bad."

"Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you
something." He opened his bag, took out his syringe. "Here, Yonie, we'll
begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in three minutes he had given
all four an antitoxin injection. "Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way
what's his name?"

"Hain," said the cook, "dat's his nem."

"Haines," explained one of the men.

"Dat's what I say," said the cook indignantly, "Hain."

The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and,
getting no response, opened it and walked in.

"Be the powers, Narcisse!" cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking after
the doctor, "it's little I iver thought I'd pity that baste, but Hivin
save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. An' begob,
he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid him."

But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious
etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping
heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the
outbreak of sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with
an anxious foreboding in regard to the sick man who had been sent out
the day before. Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken
fool in the presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness
that he had found it necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large
and frequent doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly
medical purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When
fully awake he was aware of a young man with a very pale and very stern
face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began:

"Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp."

"Who the deuce are you?" replied Haines, staring up at him.

"They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line."

"Dr. Bailey?" said Haines, sitting up. "Oh, I've heard of you." His tone
indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, it was his special
chum and confrere who had been ejected from his position in the Gap camp
through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures.

"You have some very sick men in the camp," repeated Dr. Bailey, his
voice sharp and stern.

"Oh, a little tonsilitis," replied Haines in an indifferent tone.

"Diphtheria," said Bailey shortly.

"Diphtheria be hanged!" replied Haines insolently; "I examined them
carefully last night."

"They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of
looking into their throats."

"The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here
to interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your
professional manners?" Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the
intrusion of this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the crime
of his youth that of being guilty of a serious breach of professional
etiquette.