The Doctor

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Doctor


Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The
Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with
a small g."

"I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past. I
see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you,
too, unless you change, out of existence."

"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it
arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but
the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?"

"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick
and running this library and clubroom business."

"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The railroad
men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this
constituency?"

Dick laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy
him. Oh, I know the game."

Daggett was silenced for some moments.

"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our coming
Member." He opened the door. "Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the
Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle--Mr.
Hull, the coming Member for this constituency."

"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent,"
said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of
the political parties or their representatives. "I must get along. But,
Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell
business." With this he closed the door.

"Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, "but a little unpractical,
eh?"

"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think
he is on the right track."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this
country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks
that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can
keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over
night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see
them, too."

"Signs?" inquired Hull.

"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held
responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,'
too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's
brother is taking a hand, I believe."

"The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him."

"Do you know him?"

"Not well."

"You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't
forget it."

Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable
wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for
the tenderfoot.

"All right," said Daggett, "you may sniff. I've watched him and I've
discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker
player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit
poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer."

"What's his game?"

"Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here
at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there.
Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen
to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing
clubrooms."

"By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico'
think of it?"

"Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's
a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him.
He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'"

"What about 'Mexico'?"

"Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit,
divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting
queer."

Hull was at once on the alert. "That's interesting. You are sure of your
facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign
is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to
be considered."

But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political
machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the
saloon and "red light" influence to be easily emancipated. The business
interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent
upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had
the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for
reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the
railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic
lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the
saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore,
unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to
cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr.
Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an
endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective
were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an
unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of
the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was
too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man
"who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or
blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker."

"He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in reply to an
influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine.

Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack.
"Mexico" and the organization of which he was the head were instructed
to "run him out." Receiving his orders, "Mexico" called his agents
together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately
developed, one party led by "Peachy" being strongly in favour of
obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly
opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. "Mexico" sat silent, watchful,
impassive. At length, "Peachy," in full swing of an impassioned and
sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was
called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief.

"Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do
something."

A grim laugh at "Peachy's" expense went round the company.

"Do somethin'?" snarled "Peachy," stung to fury, "I'll do somethin' one
of these days. I've stood you all I want."

"Peachy's" oaths were crude in comparison with "Mexico's," but his fury
lent them force. "Mexico" turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him.

"Do something? Meaning?"

"Never mind," growled "Peachy."

"Git!" "Mexico" pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of
doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that
meeting, but banishment from the company of which "Mexico" was head, and
that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. "Peachy"
was startled.

"You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled apologetically. "I didn't
mean for to--"

"You git!" repeated "Mexico," turning the pointing finger from the door
to the face of the startled wretch.

With a fierce oath "Peachy" reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw.
"Mexico" moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except
that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat
over the piercing black eyes.

"You dog!" he ground out through his clenched teeth, "you know you can't
bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me
up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!"

The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while
"Mexico's" hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly "Peachy" rose
and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage
beast. At the door he paused.

"'Mexico,'" he said, "is this the last between you and me?"

"Mexico" kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man
backing out of the door.

"Git out, you cur!" he said, with contemptuous deliberation.

"Take that, then."

Like a flash, "Mexico" threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as
one. A slight smile curled "Mexico's" lip.

"Got him that time, I reckon."

"Hurt, 'Mexico'?" anxiously inquired his friends.

"Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight." The bartender and some
others came running in with anxious faces. "Never mind, boys," said
"Mexico." "'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him
some."

"Say, there's blood here!" said the bartender. "He's been bleedin' bad."

"Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business."

The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired.

"Now, boys, listen to me," said "Mexico" impressively, leaning over the
table. "Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine,
and the man that touches him touches me." There was an ominous silence.

"Just as you say, 'Mexico,'" said one of the men, "but I see the finish
of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you
know he ain't the kind that quits."

"You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of
this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that.
But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay."

As the meeting broke up, "Mexico's" friends warned him against "Peachy."

"Pshaw! 'Peachy'!" said "Mexico" contemptuously. "He couldn't hold his
gun steady at me."

"He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round."

But "Mexico" only spat out his contempt for anything that "Peachy" could
do, and went calmly on his way, "keeping the boys in line." But he began
to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he
could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness
on the part of the boys to "line up" at the word, but there was no
corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the "same old
party." There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part
of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been
several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm
for all "Mexico" represented. They "lined up" still, but beyond this
they did not go.

The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the
attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the
polls. "It's that cursed doctor!" he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member
for the district. "He's been working a deep game. Of course, his
brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we
know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm
afraid of him."

"Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing," said McKenty.

"How?"

"Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without
grease." McKenty spoke out of considerable experience.

"That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of
another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys
all round."

"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could take
a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too."

"That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But you
can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs
altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one
doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere.
He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can
get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says."

McKenty thought deeply for some moments. "Well," he said, finally,
"something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage
to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?"

"'Mexico'!" exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. "There's
the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be
strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be
after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The
best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No,
sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right."

"Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of
loosening up people."

"But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work
here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's
some religion in it."

McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.

"I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. "The doctor's got it
hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring--I
was--when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair
curl." And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting
in question.

"Well," said McKenty, "I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,'
pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much.
You've simply got to get after him."

This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for,
looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he
perceived "Mexico" sauntering down the other side of the street.

"There he is now," he cried, going toward the door. "Hi! 'Mexico'!" he
called, and "Mexico" came slouching across. "Ugly looking beggar, ain't
he?" said the editor. "Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!"

"Mornin'," grunted "Mexico," nodding first to the editor and then to
McKenty.

"How is things, 'Mexico'?" said the editor, in his most ingratiating
manner.

"How?"

"How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know."

"Comin' on soon?"

"Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be
ready, though."

"Can't be too soon," said "Mexico."

"How is that?"

"Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion," with a glance at
the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. "People beginnin' to go
to meetin' in this country."

"I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty,
facetiously.

"Mexico" turned his eyes slowly upon the Member.

"Anything to say agin it?"

"Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's
got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip."

"Who says?"

"Oh, I hear it everywhere."

"Guess it must be right, then," replied "Mexico," grimly.

"And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to
the mourners' bench."

"Do, eh?"

"Look here, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone,
"you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you,
are you?"

"Don't know about that."

"You don't?"

"No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm
working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my
way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess.
Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon."

"Well, do you imagine the doctor has?"

"Mexico" paused, then said thoughtfully, "Blanked if I can git on to his
game!"

"Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You
don't really think he has your interest at heart?"

"Can't quite tell." "Mexico" wore a vexed and thoughtful air. "Wish I
could. If I thought so I'd--"

"What?"

"Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!" There was a sudden
gleam from under "Mexico's" heavy brows and a ring in his usually
drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. "There ain't
too many of that kind raound."

"What do you think of that?" inquired the editor, as "Mexico" sauntered
out of the door.

"Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it
ought to be enforced."

"That means war," said the editor.

"Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd
give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country."

But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the
country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should
so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his
work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to
the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of
the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines
opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both
labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive
ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of
miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long
campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors
were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so
urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were
concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The
miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched
conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous
objection.

How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor,
a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on
the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where
it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his
return from Scotland.

"We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before,"
grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret.

"It's the universal law," replied Dick. "Some men must die for their
nation. It's been the way from the first."

"But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work
yourself to death as you are doing?" said Margaret, anxiously. "You know
you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came
back."

Barney only smiled. "That would be no great matter," he said, lightly.
"But there is no fear of me," he added. "I don't pine for an early
death, you know. I've got a lot to live for."

There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave
in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return,
and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and
speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light
and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and
Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's
mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so.
Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and
tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had
gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend.

"It would be easier for me not to speak of her," he had said on his
return, "but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to
talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy."

And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till
at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only
deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory
of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of
each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney.
It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of
his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's
story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months,
combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even
in the most radiant moments of her life.

"There is only place for gratitude," he said, one evening, to them. "Why
should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or
to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from
pain, and her last evening so full of joy?"

It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps
to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he
went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in
him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady,
but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the
words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender.
The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm
possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to
give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical
well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and
spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had
initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not
to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element
and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the
success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as
ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do,
they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As
"Mexico" said, they "couldn't get onto his game." And none of them was
more completely puzzled than was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully
acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new
spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same
time, however, "Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and
then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when
"Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself
up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who
lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and "Mexico" was
kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious
to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil
and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it
difficult for "Mexico" to accept it as being sincere.

"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery
deepened. "What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?"

One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve
miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had
been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with a wrathful
affection.

"What the--ah--what makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" asked
him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had
come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto you. It's all just
d--, that is, cursed foolishness!"

"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll
tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before
"Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for some time."
He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always
formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story
of the two debtors. "Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last
spring?" "Mexico" nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. "I had a
big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time,
and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long
enough to pay back what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent
tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going.
"That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a great
thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps!
they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night
like this. And don't you think that's good enough?"

Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the
sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale.
After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:

"You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want."

"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I
haven't, have I?"

"Blanked if--that is, no, you haven't."

"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my
friend." He put out his hand, which "Mexico" gripped and held fast.
"But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants you more than
I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend."

"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess not.
That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight.
It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It
would be a blank--that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off.
But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that
mountain there."

"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor,
quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,'
it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!"

"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a sudden
suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say, you're not talkin' religion to me,
are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet."

"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a
good thing and I want my friend to have it."

When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at the
door. "I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of
yours for a spell?"