Part 10

"That’s jest where I’m glad to have a chance to learn you somethin’," David returned with quite unwonted eagerness. It was evident he had struck a vein. "There ain’t near so much difference as you fellows think. Do have some more prunes, Mr. Glady—they don’t take up no room at all. As far as eatin’ is concerned, anyway, there’s terrible little difference. It’s a caution how the Almighty’s evened things up after all—that’s a favourite idea o’ mine," he went on quite earnestly, "the way He gives a square deal all round. In the long run, that is; you jest watch an’ see if it ain’t so. I ain’t terrible religious, an’ I ain’t related to no class-leaders, but there’s a hymn I’m mighty fond of—I’d give it out twicet a Sunday if I was a preacher—it has a line about ’My web o’ time He wove’; an’ I believe," David went on, his face quite aglow, "it’s the grandest truth there is. An’ I believe He puts in the dark bits where everybody thinks it’s all shinin’, an’ the shinin’ bits where everybody thinks it’s all dark—an’ that’s the way it goes, you see."

"That’s all very fine," rejoined Mr. Glady, a little timid about what he wished to say, yet resolved to get it out; "that’s all very fine in theory—but a fellow only needs to look around to see it makes quite a bit o’ difference just the same," he affirmed, casting an appraising glance around the richly furnished room. "Money makes the mare go, all right."

"Mebbe it does," said David, a far-off look in his eyes. "I wisht you’d both have some more crackers an’ prunes; mebbe it does, but it don’t make her go very far in—in where your feelin’s is, I mean. There’s far more important things than for the mare to get a gait on. Look at that Standard-oil fellow, out there in Cleveland, that’s got more millions than he has hairs. Well, money made the mare go—but if it’d make the hair stay, I reckon he’d like it better. They say there ain’t a hair between his head an’ heaven. He could drop a million apiece on his friends, an’ then have millions left; but they say he’s clean forgot how to chaw—if he takes anythin’ stronger’n Nestle’s food it acts on him like dynamite, an’ then he boosts up the price o’ oil—he does it kind of unconscious like—when he’s writhin’. I wouldn’t board with him for a month if he gave me the run of his vault. But there’s the fellow that drives his horses; he sets down to his breakfast at six o’clock—with his hair every way for Sunday—an’ he eats with his knife an’ drinks out of his saucer. An’ when all his children thinks he’s done, he says: ’Pass me them cucumber pickles—an’ another hunk o’ lemon pie,’—so you see things is divided up pretty even after all. I believe luck comes to lots o’ men, of course—but _one_ of its hands is most gen’rally always as empty as a last year’s nest—you can’t have everything," concluded David, looking first at the men’s plates and then down at the crackers and prunes.

"But one handful’s a heap," suggested Mr. Glady, lifting the keel of a ruined herring to his lips.

"’Tain’t as much as you think for," retorted the host. "It don’t touch the sore spot at all. If a fellow’s got a good deal of th’ almighty needful, as they call it, it may make his surroundin’s a little more—a little more ornamentorious," he declared, wrestling with the word. "But there ain’t nothin’ more to it than that. Take me, if you like; I’ve got more than lots o’ fellows—or used to have, anyway. But the difference is mostly ornament; a few more things like that there statute—or is it a statue?—I can’t never tell them two apart; that there statute of the hamstrung lady you run up agin in the sittin’-room. But I never eat only one herrin’ at a time, an’ I jest sleep on one pillow at a time—an’ if I have the colic I jest cuss an’ howl the same as some weary Willie that a woman gives one of her own pies to, an’ he eats all the undercrust. I’m afeard you don’t like our humble fare," he digressed in a rather plaintive voice; "won’t you have some more crackers an’ prunes between you—they’ll never get past the kitchen, anyhow."

The horny-handed guests, declining the oft-pressed hospitality, began about this time to look a little uneasily at each other; visions of their original errand were troubling them some. Finally Mr. Hunter nodded very decidedly to his colleague, whereat Mr. Glady again produced his trusty handkerchief, and, after he had tooted his disquietude into its sympathetic bosom, cleared his throat with a sound that suggested the dredging of a harbour, and began:

"Me and Mr. Hunter’s got a commission, Mr. Borland. We’re appointed to—to confer with you about, about the interests of the men, so to speak; about a raise—that is, about a more fairer distribution of the product of our united industry, as it were," he went on, serenely quoting without acknowledgment from the flowing stanzas of a gifted agitator whose mission had been completed but a week before.

"I’m terrible glad you brought that up," David responded enthusiastically. "I hated to mention it myself; but I’ve been wonderin’ lately about a little scheme. D’ye think the men would be willin’ to kind of enter into a bargain for gettin’ a certain per cent. of the profits an’——"

"I’d stake my life they would," Mr. Hunter broke in fervidly. "Of course, we haven’t no authority on that point, but I’m sure they’d be willin’—a more agreeable lot of men you never seen, Mr. Borland. Don’t you think so, Tom?" he appealed to the approving Glady. The latter was framing an ardent endorsement—but David went on:

"An’ of course I’d expect them to enjoy the losses along with us too—then we’d all have the same kind o’ feelin’s all the time, like what becometh brethren. An’ we’re havin’ a lot o’ the last kind these days. What do you think, Mr. Glady?"

Mr. Glady was sadly at a loss; with a kind of muscular spasm he seized his cup and held it out towards David; "I think I’ll take another cup o’ tea," he said vacantly.

"Certainly—an’ I want you an’ Mr. Hunter to talk that little scheme over with the men. An’ you must come back an’ tell me what they think—come an’ have supper with me again, an’ I’ll try an’ have somethin’ extra, so’s we can eat an’ drink an’ be merry."

Nobody had suggested departure; but already the three men were moving out into the hall. "How’s all the men keepin’, Mr. Hunter?—the men in our shops, I mean," the genial host enquired.

"All pretty good, sir—all except Jim Shiel, an’ he’s pretty sick. He’s been drawin’ benefits for a month now."

"Oh, that’s too bad; but I’m glad you told me. I’ll look around an’ see him soon—your folks all well, Mr. Glady?"

"Yes, thank you. But don’t call me Mr. Glady," said the friendly delegate; "I’d feel better if you’d just call me plain Tom."

"An’ my name’s Henry," chimed Mr. Hunter, "just plain Henry."

"Them’s two elegant names," agreed Mr. Borland, "an’ I think myself they’re best among friends. Speakin’ about first names reminds me of an old soldier my grandfather used to know in Massachusetts. He fought for Washington, an’ he had great yarns to tell. One was that one mornin’ he assassinated thirty-seven British fellows before breakfast; an’ Washington, he came out an’ smiled round on the corpses. Of course, he slung old Hollister a word o’ praise. ’I done it for you, General,’ says old Hollister. ’Don’t,’ says Washington, ’don’t call me General—call me George,’" and David led the chorus with great zest.

"Well, we’ll be biddin’ you good-evenin’," said Mr. Glady, extending his hand.

"Jest wait a minute; I sent word to Thomas to hitch up the chestnuts—he’ll drive you down. Here he is now," as the luxurious carriage rolled to the door. Thomas controlled himself with difficulty as he watched Mr. Borland handing his petrified guests into the handsome equipage. Panic takes different forms; Mr. Glady wrapped the lap-robe carefully about his neck, while Mr. Hunter shook hands solemnly with the coachman.

"I don’t use this rig a terrible lot myself," he heard David saying; "it’s a better fit for the missus. If you feel like drivin’ round a bit to get the air, Thomas’ll take good care o’ you. Good-night, Henry; good-night, Tom," he sung out as the horses’ hoofs rattled down the avenue.

Then David went slowly back into the house. He wandered, smiling reminiscently, into the sitting-room. Pausing before the Venus de Milo, he chucked the classic chin.

"Well, old lady," he said gravely, "there’s more ways of chokin’ a dog besides chokin’ him with butter."

*XVII*

_*FRIENDSHIP’S MINISTRY*_

If any man would learn the glory and beauty of a mighty tree we would bid him range the untroubled forest where God’s masterpieces stand in rich profusion. But we are wrong. Not there will he learn how precious and how beautiful are the stately oak and the spreading beech and the whispering pine. But let him dwell a summer season through upon some treeless plain or rolling prairie, and there will be formed within him a just and discriminating sense of the healing ministry committed to these mediators between earth and sky.

And men learn friendship best where friends are not. Not when surrounded by strong and loving hearts, but when alone with thousands of indifferent lives, do we learn how truly rich is he who has a friend. To find then one who really cares is to confront in sudden joy a familiar face amid the waste of wilderness.

Alone among indifferent thousands as he alighted from the train, Harvey Simmons turned his steps, the streets somewhat more familiar than before, towards the house where dwelt the only man he knew in all the crowded city. A few enquiries and a half hour’s vigorous walking brought him within sight of the doctor’s house; he was so intent on covering the remaining distance that two approaching figures had almost passed him by when he heard a voice that had something familiar about it.

"I’ll do the best I can, Wallis," the voice was saying, "but I guess we’ll have to put the child under chloroform."

Harvey turned a quick glance on the speaker. It was none other than the doctor himself.

"Dr. Horton—is that you, Dr. Horton?" the youth asked timidly.

The older of the two men turned suddenly on his heel, the keen gray eyes scrutinizing the figure before him. It was but a moment till the same kindly smile that Harvey remembered so well broke over his face. Both hands were on the young man’s shoulder in an instant.

"You don’t mean to say—I know you, mind—but you don’t mean to say you’re that young fellow from, from Glenallen—that brought his mother to me about her eyes?"

By this time Harvey had possession of one of the hands. "I’m the very same," he said, his face beaming with the joy of being recognized.

"How is she?" the doctor asked like a flash.

The light faded a little from Harvey’s face. "She can’t see at all now, sir," he answered soberly. "She’s quite blind—only she can tell when it’s morning."

"Thank the Lord for that," said the other fervently; "that’s always a gleam of hope." Then followed a brief exchange of questions and answers.

"How does your mother take it?" the doctor asked finally.

"Oh, she’s lovely—she’s just as sweet and patient as she can be; doesn’t think of herself at all."

"Your mother must be a regular brick."

"She’s a great Christian," quoth her son. "I think that’s what keeps her up."

"Shouldn’t wonder—it’s the best kind of stimulant I know of," the doctor answered in a droll sort of way, turning and smiling at his companion. "Oh, excuse me, Wallis—what’s this the name is?" he asked Harvey; "I’ve just forgotten it."

"Simmons, Harvey Simmons," the other answered.

"Of course; it’s quite familiar now that I hear it. This is Dr. Wallis—and this is Mr. Simmons," he said to the other. "Dr. Wallis was just taking me to see a patient. Did you want to see me about anything in particular, Harvey?—you won’t mind my calling you that, will you?"

It only needed a glance at the pleased face to see how welcome was the familiarity.

"Well, really, I did," Harvey responded frankly. Wherewith, briefly and simply, he told his friend the purpose which had brought him to the city, outlining the academic course he intended to pursue, earnest resolve evident in every word. "And I wanted to get your advice about a boarding-house," he concluded; "you see, I thought you might know some nice quiet place that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be too dear," he said, flushing a little. "I’m quite a stranger in the city—but I don’t want to go to a regular boarding-house if I can help it."

"Well, no," the doctor began, knitting his brows. "And I really ought to be able to help you out on that. But I tell you—you come along with us; then we can talk as we go along. Besides, I’m sure Dr. Wallis here will be able to advise you much better than I could—he knows every old woman in the city."

His confrère smiled. "It’s mostly the submerged tenth I know," he answered; "I’m afraid there aren’t many of my patients you’d care to board with. Want a place near the college, I suppose?"

"That’s not so essential," said Harvey; "I wouldn’t mind a walk of a mile or so at all."

"Good idea," said the other; "most students are pretty cheerful feeders—want a room to yourself?"

"I’d prefer it—if it wouldn’t add too much to the expense. I’ve always got to consider that, you know," returned Harvey, smiling bravely towards his new-found friend.

"Right again," affirmed the doctor. "Single stalls are the thing; everybody sleeps better without assistance. Sooner have a few children around? Some fellows study better with kids in the house, and others again go wild if they hear one howl."

"I believe I’d get along just as well without them," said Harvey, laughing; "you see, I’ll need to study very hard—and I don’t believe they help one much."

"It’s like studying in a monkeys’ cage," asserted Dr. Wallis vigorously; "what I hate about little gaffers in a boarding-house is the way they always want to look at your watch," he enlarged solemnly, "and five times out of six they let it fall. It’s fun for them, as the old fable says, but it’s death to the frogs. And of course you want to get into a place where they have good cooking; it’s pretty hard to do the higher mathematics on hash and onions—and lots o’ students have lost their degrees through bad butter. I’ve known men whose whole professional life was tainted by the butter they got at college."

"But I’m not over particular about what I eat," began Harvey; "if the place is warm, and if they keep it——"

"That’s all right enough," broke in the other, "but it makes a difference just the same. You’ve got the same kind of internal mechanism as other fellows, and you’ve got to reckon with it. Well, we’ll see what we can do. I’ve got a place or two in mind now. I’ll tell you about them later—we’re almost at my patient’s house. I say, you may as well come in—it’ll be a little glimpse of life for you; and we can see more about this matter after we come out."

Another hundred yards brought them to their destination, a rather squalid looking cottage on a rather squalid looking street. Dr. Wallis knocked at the door, pushing it open and entering without tarrying for response. As Harvey followed with the older doctor a child’s wailing fell upon his ears, emerging from the only other room the little house contained.

"Just wait here," said Dr. Wallis to the other two; "the child’s in there—I’ll be back in a minute."

He disappeared, Harvey and his friend seating themselves on a rude bench near the door. Both looked around for a minute at the pitiful bareness of the room; and the eyes of both settled down upon a tawdry doll that lay, forsaken and disconsolate, on the floor. Tawdry enough it was, and duly fractured in the head; but it redeemed the wretched room with the flavour of humanity, and the solitary sunbeam that had braved the grimy window played about the battered brow, and the vision of some child’s wan face rose above the hapless bundle.

"He’s a jewel," Dr. Horton said in a half whisper, "a jewel of the first water."

"Who?" asked Harvey.

For answer, the doctor jerked his head backward towards the adjoining room. "He just lives among poor people like these—they’re all idolaters of his. He gives away every cent he makes; when he does get a rich patient he makes them shell out for the poor ones. I know one of my patients called him in once for an emergency—sprained his big toe getting out of the bath-tub—and Wallis charged him fifty dollars for rubbing it. Then he went out and gave the money all away; the patient forgot all about his toe after Wallis got through with him, I can tell you—the pain went higher up. But I was kind of glad—he was the head of a big plumbing firm, and I always thought Providence used Wallis as the humble instrument to chasten him."

"Just come this way please, Dr. Horton," said a voice from the door.

Sitting alone, Harvey listened to the muffled sounds within. The crying subsided as the odour of chloroform arose; and the voice of weeping was now the mother’s, not the child’s. Finally both grew still and a long silence followed. So long did it seem that Harvey had moved towards the door, intending to walk about till the operation should be over, when suddenly both men emerged from the tiny apartment.

"It’s all over," said Dr. Horton—"and I think it’s been successful; I believe the child will see as well as ever she did."

Harvey looked as relieved as though he had known the parties all his life.

"I say, Horton," broke in the other doctor, "what’ll you charge for this? Better tell me, and I can tell her," nodding towards the room where the mother was still bended over the beshadowed child.

"Oh, that’s not worrying me," said the specialist, carefully replacing an instrument in his case as he Spoke. "Nobody looks for money from a neighbourhood like this," indicating the unpromising surroundings by a glance around. "I’ll get my reward in heaven."

"A little on account wouldn’t do any harm," returned the cheery Wallis. "It’s out of the question to ask a man of your station to pike away down here for nothing; I’m going to try anyhow—just wait here till I come back," wherewith he turned towards the little room, closing the door carefully behind him as he entered.

He had hardly got inside before, to Harvey’s amazement, Dr. Horton dropped his surgical case and tiptoed swiftly to the door, stooping down to gaze through a keyhole that long years and frequent operations had left more than usually spacious. Watching intently, Harvey could see the face of his friend distorted by an expression partly of mirth and partly of indignation. For Dr. Horton could descry the woman still bending over the little bed, evidently oblivious to the fact that the doctor had returned; and Dr. Wallis himself was conducting a hurried search through his pockets upper and nether, a grimace of satisfaction indicating that he had found at last the material he was in quest of.

The spying specialist had barely time to spring back to where Harvey was standing, when the other reappeared, smiling and jubilant.

"You never can tell, Horton," he began, holding out a bill; "you can never tell—there’s nothing like trying. Here’s a five I collected for you, and it was given gladly enough. It’s not very much but——"

"You go to the devil," broke in the specialist, trying to look angry; "you think you’re infernal smart, don’t you?—but you haven’t got all the brains in the world."

"You surprise me, Dr. Horton," the other began vigorously, commanding a splendid appearance of injured amazement. "You don’t mean to insinuate that I put part of the fee in my pocket, do you?" he demanded, striking a martial attitude, and inwardly very proud of the way he had changed the scent.

"Put that rag back in your left-hand vest pocket where you got it," growled the senior physician as he picked up his hat. "You may work your smart-Alec tricks with the poor natives round here—but you can’t come it on me. Take Simmons along and find him some place to lay his head," he added, opening the door and leading the way outward to the street.

The three walked together for perhaps four or five squares, the two physicians still engaged in the genial hostilities that Dr. Wallis’s financial genius had provoked. Suddenly the latter came to a standstill at the junction of two streets, his eyes roving along a richly shaded avenue to his left.

"I guess you’d better go along home, Horton," he said—"you’ll want to post your ledger anyhow, after a profitable day like this. And I think I’ll just take your friend here and go on the still hunt for a little. Don’t look much like a boarding-house street, does it?" he added, as he marked the look of surprise on his contemporary’s face. "But you never can tell—anyhow, I’ve got a place along here in my mind’s eye, and we may just as well find out now as any other time."

"Wish you luck," the older man flung after them as he went his way; "if you get lodgings at any of those houses you’ll have to sleep with the butler."

"It does look a little unlikely, I’ll admit," Dr. Wallis said to Harvey as they started down the avenue; "but the whole case is quite unusual. This is a woman of over fifty I’m going to see—nobody knows exactly—and she’s almost the only rich patient I’ve got. She lives a strange, half hermit kind of life—goes out almost none—and mighty few people ever get in. Except her clergyman, of course—she insists on seeing her minister constantly; I think he’s just a curate, and I’ve always had the feeling that he’d consider death great gain—if it came to her. But for a while back she’s been talking to me as if she wouldn’t mind some one in the house, if they were congenial. It seems one or two attempts have been made to break in at nights—and the butler sleeps like a graven image. Just the other day I suggested she might take in a nurse, a young lady I know, who wants to get a quiet home—but I nearly had to run for shelter; she gave her whole sex the finest decorating I’ve heard for years. No women for her, thank you."

"Is she a little odd?" Harvey ventured to enquire.

The doctor looked him in the eyes and laughed. "Well, rather! Odd, I should say she is. But she’s just as genuine as she can be. And if you get in there you’ll be as comfortable as you’d be in Windsor Castle—quiet and secluded as a monastery, the very place for a student. She’s been gathering beautiful things for years, all sorts of curios and rarities—and she’s passionately fond of animals, keeps a regular menagerie. And she’s great on keeping well; pretends to despise all doctors, and has a few formulas for every occasion. Deep breathing is her specialty—she’s a regular fiend on deep breathing. But you’ll see for yourself," the doctor concluded, as they turned in at an open gate and began to mount the stone steps that led to a rather imposing-looking door.

Spacious and inviting, if somewhat neglected looking, were the old-fashioned grounds about the old-fashioned house. Great spreading trees stood here and there, perhaps thirty or forty in all, some in the sombre dishabille of autumn, some in unchanging robes of green. And two summer-houses, one smaller than the other, nestling in opposite corners, stood deserted and lonely amid the new-fallen carpet of dying leaves. A solitary flower-bed, evidently ill at ease amid the unfettered life about it, waved its few remaining banners, the stamp of death upon them, pensively in the evening breeze. There was an ancient fountain, too, but its lips were parched and dry, and the boyish form that stood in athletic pose above it looked weary of the long and fruitless vigil. Two brazen dogs stood near the gate, sullen and uncaring now, the chill wind awakening memories of many a winter’s storm, and foretelling, too, another winter waiting at the door.