the nearest house and temporarily cared for as well as possible under
my own rather wabbly and uncertain direction, whilst I told my story as
best I could in my pitiful condition.
“It was several days before I could be moved, a local physician
meanwhile ministering to me with more devotion than surgical skill.
You may imagine how happy I was to learn that my head was so hard that
it had not been feazed by a 45 calibre conical ball. The bullet had
entered my head at the left temple, glancing around the skull, plowing
a huge furrow in the scalp and cutting a groove in the outer table
of the bone along which it left a trail of lead clear around to the
occiput, whence it had been deflected. It was afterward found buried in
the wall of the station and sent to me as a souvenir.
“After my return home I was seriously ill for several weeks. I finally,
however, returned to my practice, a little the worse for wear, but
grateful for my hard-headedness. It was some time before my brain
worked with its usual alertness, but after a few months I had only the
scar to remind me of a most awful experience.
* * * * *
“And now for the story of the skull:
“A strong posse was organized for the pursuit of the murderers and they
were soon overtaken, after a running fight some miles north of the
scene of the awful tragedy in which I had enacted such an important
rôle.
“The bandits had entrenched themselves in a deserted farm house, from
which they made a desperate fight against their pursuers. Several
of the attacking party were killed or wounded. During a lull in the
fighting the smaller of the two desperados deserted his comrade,
escaped from the house, and ran for the timber. A clever chap who had
secreted himself in the woods at the rear of the house in anticipation
of some such move on the part of the murderers, received him with a
huge charge of buckshot from both barrels of a shot gun fired at close
range, killing him instantly.
“I have a picture of the result of the shot, taken as the dead outlaw
lay in his coffin. In my leisure moments I comfort myself by gazing
upon it. Through the agency of that photograph the humiliation of
the kick the fellow administered to me has faded into the faintest of
memories. Indeed, when I do chance to recall that particular incident
of the tragedy in which I played so prominent a part, it is with
amusement rather than with chagrin.
“The principal of the two outlaws finally exhausted his ammunition. The
house was rushed, and after a desperate hand to hand battle, in which,
as the sheriff afterwards told me, the desperado ‘made plenty good,
and laid out’ several of the attacking party, he was overpowered and
manacled.
“The captured bandit proved to be Jack McDougall--_nom de guerre_,
‘Reddy McDug’--a many times murderer, bank robber and all round ‘bad
man,’ upon whose head a price had rested for many months.
“McDougall was taken to K----, the county seat, and placed in jail
under a strong guard. He was speedily tried, convicted and sentenced to
be hanged.
“During the trial, the desperado and I became very well acquainted,
and before the date set for the execution I am free to say that I had
become sufficiently interested in him to rather regret the impending
cessation of our relations. Indeed, I am not ashamed to confess that I
finally conceived a warm regard for the poor devil. Call it a whim if
you like, the fact remains that I really did like him.
“Whatever else he may have been, Reddy was not a coward, and if there
is any one thing I admire more than another in a man it is gameness.
McDougall was a moral imbecile--he considered that he had followed a
vocation, and a rather decent one, but he knew the price of the game
and was willing to pay it if needs must. He said to me at one of my
numerous visits:
“‘You see, Doc, it all depends on how you’re born, and how the cards is
stacked. No matter what kind of a game you play, an’ no matter how you
play it, settlin’ time is bound to come sooner or later. I’d like to
sit in the hold up game a little longer, ’cause I’m still able-bodied,
but I dunno as it makes a h--ll of a lot of difference when a feller’s
hand is called. Anyhow, what’s the use o’ kickin’? Mine’s been called
all right, all right, and there you are.’
“I last saw McDougall the day before his execution. He was still game
as a pebble. His principal concern was to have me witness his end.
Said he:
“‘Now, Doc, you an’ me has got to be pretty good pals, even if I did
plug you that time tryin’ to help my pardner--which was part of the
game anyway. You’re all the friend I’ve got, and I’d like to have you
present at the swingin’ party. Just come and watch me cash in, an’
see how nice an’ gentlemanly your friend Reddy ‘ll take his medicine.
There’ll be nary a kick out o’ me before the bottom drops out of
things, an’ nary a kick afterward, if Mr. Sheriff’s onto his job.’
“I saw that McDougall was in earnest, and assured him as I bade him
good-bye that I would be on hand for the ceremony. But, all the same,
I didn’t mean a word of it. I had had about all the experience with
hangings, both as witness and prospective principal, that was necessary
to satisfy a man of my modest desires. Why, I had myself actually been
mentally hanged and nearly physically hanged simultaneously. Besides,
as I have already said, I liked McDougall.
“The execution came off according to schedule, and I was greatly
consoled by the report that the sheriff, was, as McDougall expressed
it, decidedly ‘on to his job.’ Indeed, I was told that the hanging
was as smooth a piece of work as had ever occurred in Minnesota. So
smooth was it, and so agreeable to the sentiments of the population
of that section of the State, that the re-election of Sheriff Jackson
was a foregone conclusion. All of which shows that the artist in his
particular line is not without appreciation, and that the executioner,
unlike the prophet, getteth honor in his own country.
“There were no friends to claim the body of the dead outlaw, and it
finally found its way to the M---- Medical College. The demonstrator
of anatomy, who chanced to be a warm friend of mine, knew the
circumstances under which I had become acquainted with the late
Mr. McDougall, and reasoning that I would be very glad to receive
a souvenir commemorative of the strenuous introduction to that
distinguished gentleman which I had received, dissected the head
with especial care, and after thorough preparation and skillful
bleaching sent the gruesome object to me with his compliments. Since
the reception of the skull my lamented friend in material bone and
ethereal spirit has been the presiding genius of my den--a friend in
whom I have full confidence, because I can trust him, and an enemy whom
I no longer dread, because I have him where all of our enemies should
be placed--in a collection of curios. Rather a nice skull, isn’t it?”
A WISE CHILD
I was enjoying my after dinner cigar, and thinking, with some
amusement, of a remark my little daughter had made. During the
afternoon she had been taken by a party of my friends to a museum--a
great treat for her, as she is of an inquiring turn of mind. Among
the curiosities and freaks on exhibition, was a poor fellow who was
afflicted with some nervous affection that impelled him to keep
constantly in motion. The child was especially impressed with the fact
that the man was unable to sit down. The grown-up folks of the party
were greatly puzzled by the curious phenomenon--not so my hopeful.
Looking at him carefully and with an expression of most profound pity
for a few moments, she exclaimed, “Poor man! What an awful lot of
spankings he must have had when he was a little boy!”
[Illustration: “A WISE CHILD”]
“Well,” I thought, “children are keen observers after all. It might be
interesting to read the thoughts of some of them. Now, there’s that
Smith baby for example--what a wise expression it has, to be sure!
Really, that child ought to be called Solomon. I would suggest the
name to _pater familias_, only he might get frightened at the mere
suggestion of such wisdom on the part of his offspring.”
As a matter of fact, the Smith child is the most remarkable specimen
of a young one I have ever seen. He is now some three years of age,
yet has never made the slightest attempt to talk. As for walking, I
question whether the child will ever be able to use his limbs very
successfully. They are malformed and very imperfectly developed. But
the child’s head has gone to the other extreme; while by no means
symmetrical in outline, it is preternaturally large, with bulging
frontal eminences and immense parietal protuberances. The eyes are
brilliant, deep set, and reflect an expression of wise gravity that is
positively eerie. The brow is wrinkled in strongly marked furrows and
the general aspect of the face is somewhat shrivelled and prematurely
old. Around the angles of the mouth are converging, plainly accentuated
lines that give the face an expression of sternness. There is no
color in the skin save about the eyelids, which are habitually red
and tumefied. The dead, clayey whiteness of the child’s complexion
is occasionally relieved by dark, blotchy eruptions, that make the
unhealthy pallor of the skin still more noticeable.
The most striking peculiarity of the Smith baby is its prematurely aged
look, suggesting the grotesque combination of the face of a sickly old
man with the body of a child. At first sight, the effect is somewhat
startling.
And yet, despite its physical defects, the child grows on. Knowing how
utterly defenseless the poor little thing was against the circumstances
which made it a caricature of healthy babyhood, and realizing its
abject helplessness in the battle of life, I sincerely pity it.
Is it not strange that mothers lavish so much affection upon such
children as the Smith baby? No matter how many beautiful children she
may have, the heart of the mother goes out to the least favored of her
offspring in a wealth of love that is the only excuse the unfortunate
child has for living. Mothers care naught for the law of the survival
of the fittest--not they. Should such a child die, the poor mother
mourns it as the one ewe lamb of her little flock.
With the father it is different, somehow--perhaps not in all cases, but
I know it is different with the father in this instance.
Smith is a queer sort of fellow--rather reticent in manner it seems
to me. However, he is a new patron of mine and perhaps I do not quite
understand him. I was first called in to see the baby, and haven’t had
very much opportunity to converse with the father. At the present rate
of progress, I am not likely to get much better acquainted, for, come
to think of it, he seems somewhat inclined to avoid me.
But Smith’s friends say that he is a thoroughly good fellow; indeed,
that he is “one of the boys.”
Once in a while, Smith seems to be more than ordinarily anxious about
the baby--apparently through pride rather than affection, for the
little one really seems to be the bane of his existence. He did unbend
once, enough to ask me if there wasn’t some way to cure the child’s
snuffles and keep “those d--d blotches” off its face, but I am sure he
was thinking more of the comments of his neighbors than of the child’s
comfort.
I don’t believe that Smith cares a straw about his young one’s
digestion, yet he swore like a pirate when he saw the irregular manner
in which its second teeth were coming in. Not that I blame him much for
swearing, for those teeth do look more like those of a saw than such
as a baby of good breeding is expected to develop. Still, the child is
not to blame for his bad teeth. Smith knows that, if he knows anything.
I suppose I ought not to say it, but I honestly believe that Smith
would far rather his child would die than live. The poor little thing
had a bad attack of cholera infantum a while ago, and narrowly missed
going to the land where babies’ stomachs are at rest and pimples are
unknown. It is a dreadful thing to say, but I really suspect that Smith
was--well, not exactly pleased with the results of my treatment. He
made a remark the other day that was suggestive, to say the least.
He said there were too many new-fangled ideas in the treatment of
children’s diseases to suit him. “Toxins,” said he, “were invented, I
suppose, to cover up medical ignorance.”
I did not reply, for, as I have already remarked, Smith and I have not
become very friendly as yet.
But the Smith baby is a very interesting study, and I can tolerate its
father’s peculiar ways for the child’s sake, and for the interest the
case affords me.
I lolled back in my favorite chair puffing the fragrant smoke in
fantastic rings, carelessly aimed at the chandelier overhead, and
revolving the case of the Smith baby in my mind. I do not know how
long I sat there musing, but I finally fell into that half dreamy
state which, with me, is a positive sign of an impending nap. Even my
cigar was becoming sleepy and had begun to smolder. Being in no mood
to tolerate interruption, I fear it was with some irritation that I
shouted, in response to a timid rap at the door:
“Come in!”
The door opened, and in walked--Smith’s baby!
To say that I was astonished would be quite conventional, but
measurably untrue, for--I was paralyzed. I think my visitor must have
noticed the effect his unexpected entrance had upon me, for, after
a deferential bow and a polite “Good evening,” he calmly awaited my
pleasure. There was a quizzical expression in his eyes, and a pitying
smile animated his curiously wrinkled face as I finally stammered:
“W--why, g--good evening, sir. This is quite--quite, ah--unexpected,
you know.”
“And also unconventional, I presume,” said my caller. “It is not _en
regle_, I believe, for people who are helpless to call upon the doctor.
He is supposed to do all the calling himself. Patients who have sound
legs and strength enough to walk are the only sort who are expected to
visit their medical adviser. We will not consider those ‘has beens,’
who are sometimes so grateful to the doctor for helping them out of the
world that they call upon him afterward o’ nights,” and the baby smiled
sarcastically.
I do not believe in ghosts, yet I must confess that I blushed hotly at
the implied unfair criticism of my noble profession.
My young friend noticed my confusion and said:
“Pardon me, I did not mean to be personal. There are doctors and
doctors you know--and also spooks and things.”
“Great Hippocrates!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet in sudden,
amazed recollection. “I thought you could neither walk nor talk, and
you have not only come to see me but are talking as fluently as any one
could.”
“Oh, well,” replied my visitor, “things are not always what they
seem--even to doctors. I have not walked much as yet, it is true,
but I thought it best not to do so. My limbs have never looked very
promising, and consequently nothing has ever been expected of them. It
is much easier to ride or be carried about than to walk--even with good
legs--so I let the sympathy of the people about me have full sway.
“As for speaking, pray tell me what inducement there is to conversation
in my case. I am not fond of hearing myself talk--not at all, and
there’s no use talking to the people around me. They could not
understand me and there are no subjects of mutual interest. Besides,
if I should display my linguistic skill, my folks would be a little
shy of me. They are very confidential, you know, and on account of my
apparent inability to repeat what I hear, I get in on many a nice bit
of grown-up gossip.”
“Well,” I said, “there does seem to be some advantage in concealing
your power of speech, but I don’t quite comprehend your statement that
the people about you would not understand you. Your language certainly
seems clear enough for ordinary understanding.”
“Oh, well, you see I have thus far been talking in a quite commonplace
fashion. We have exchanged hardly more than mere conversational
greetings. With most persons the conversation would of necessity
begin and end with mere perfunctory remarks, and that wouldn’t be
worth while. You, however, being a doctor, and consequently a man of
learning, are capable of appreciating me at my true value. I have long
experienced a desire to converse with you, and to-night I resolved to
call upon you here at your own home, where we can have a little chat
without danger of interruption.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling at his assurance, “but how on earth have
you acquired the information necessary to carry on an intelligent
conversation with a scientific physician? You are only about three
years of age, and if you are as intellectual as you claim to be, your
precocity is certainly marvelous.”
My little friend smiled blandly, and replied: “That word, precocity,
is a very offensive one, but I excuse you for using it, because it
is evident that you do not know the true explanation of the advanced
intellect of the so-called precocious child. Do you know anything of
Buddhism, doctor?”
“Well, yes, something.”
“Then you will understand me when I say that ‘precocity’ is merely the
development in the child of a portion of the wisdom acquired during
its previous terrestrial existences. As you are aware, the modern
school of theosophists has appropriated this theory of the Buddhists.”
“Very true,” I replied, with some amusement, “but that does not add to
the validity of the theory.”
“It is evident that you are not a theosophist, doctor. I assure you,
however, that the Buddhists are right. I know they are right, for I
have myself been on earth twice before. You have doubtless often noted
that I am not as other children.”
“True, you have always seemed much older than your years,” I replied.
“Then you are prepared to believe me when I assert that what you have
regarded as an appearance of premature age, is merely a reflection of
my past lives showing through the childlike envelopment of the present.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “there is certainly food for reflection in what you
say. I confess, however, that the idea had never suggested itself to
me. I shall certainly make a note of it.”
My visitor seemed gratified at having imparted such interesting and
valuable information.
“And now, doctor, I am sure you will not consider me egotistic if I
claim to be, what my appearance would indicate--a ‘wise child’.”
“Oh, ho! Are you the original ‘wise child’ who knew his own father?” I
asked, jocularly.
My young friend seemed to take me seriously, and replied, “Pshaw!
doctor; I am surprised that you even remember that absurd theory.
There’s nothing in it, and besides, it’s a very crude test of
intellectuality. Why shouldn’t any child who is not an idiot, know its
own father? Why, I was introduced to mine immediately on my arrival in
your inhospitable clime. I remember the introduction more particularly,
because, not knowing what sort of people I was to fall in with, I was
quite afraid I might be asked to step over and sit with the girls--a
fate too horrible to think of!
“Now, doctor, I suppose you are wondering what I am going to find
to talk about. I have already informed you that platitudes and
conventional commonplaces are very fatiguing to me. I assure you,
however, that it is not my intention to go to the other extreme and
talk abstract science.”
“Great Scott!” I exclaimed, “Do you mean to say that you have had a
scientific training?”
“Oh, my, yes!” replied young Smith, drawing himself up--rather proudly
it seemed to me. “But,” he continued, “I am not going to enter into
the scientific heavies. I shall deal largely in generalities, and such
science as may appear in my remarks will be of a rather superficial
sort.
“Since knowing you, doctor, I have become quite reconciled to the death
of your predecessor in our family--dear old Dr. Whittemore. He was a
kind, considerate old man, and as tender-hearted as a woman, despite
his rough ways. But I didn’t like him at first. You see I didn’t
understand him very well. He had such a habit of swearing to himself
whenever he looked at these crooked legs of mine. But he was my friend,
nevertheless, and several times when old Smith was--”
“I beg pardon,” I said, “but did you say, old Smith?”
“Why, yes,” replied my visitor, raising his eyebrows as though
surprised at the interruption, “old Smith--the governor, you know.”
“Oh, I see, you mean your father,” I replied.
“Of course I meant my father!” exclaimed the youngster impatiently.
“Well, as I was saying, continued the child, several times when old
Smith was especially cross with me and the doctor happened to be
present, the old fellow took my part and told the governor he ought to
be ashamed of himself.
“Smith once pointed at me and said, ‘Great God! man, look at that head
and those legs! How can you blame me for being disgusted because the
little beast lived?’
“‘Now, see here, Smith,’ exclaimed the doctor, ‘that young-one, so far
as I am aware, is in no wise responsible for the contour of his legs
or the bulginess of his cranium. You and I have a theory regarding the
cause of the baby’s peculiarities, which lays the responsibility at the
door of one--’
“‘Sh!--’ said pa, ‘there is no necessity of your being personal, and
besides, my mother-in-law is in the next room, and it is really foolish
to call her in counsel. She is troublesome enough now. She looks
suspiciously wise at times.’
“‘Well, then,’ said the doctor, ‘don’t talk so like a d--d fool!’
“‘Oh, there’s no use roasting me, doctor, I am patient enough under the
circumstances. I sometimes think that if the medical profession did its
full duty, such children would not--’
“‘Would not live to a ripe old age, eh, Smith?’ interrupted the
doctor, angrily. ‘Well, sir, the profession of medicine is sometimes
compelled to save people from the consequences of their crimes--it does
not, however, feel in duty bound to commit crimes for them. I trust the
ethical distinction between the duty of the profession and the dirty
work some persons would have it do for them, is clear to your somewhat
biased intellect, my good sir!’
“My! but old Smith was mad--madder than a hornet! But the doctor seemed
to have the better of the argument, and the governor soon cleared out,
grumbling to himself and swearing at the cat that got in his way and
had his tail stepped on.”
“The old doctor certainly was your friend, and I am not very favorably
impressed by your description of your father. I might say in passing,
however, that your lack of filial respect is a by no means commendable
trait in your character. No matter what his peculiarities may be, you
must remember that Smith is your father and as such demands respect.
Have you forgotten what the Bible says, ‘Honor thy father and thy
mother?’”
My young friend looked extremely disgusted, and replied:
“Dear me, doctor!--can’t you get along without quoting such old, wormy,
out-of-date authorities as the Bible? That advice was all well enough
in its day, but honoring one’s parents in the collective sense is
played out in these modern times. Mothers are just as much deserving of
honor as ever--and that’s a great deal, but fathers--humph! The fellow
who wrote that particular portion of the scriptures didn’t know Smith,
you can just bet your bottom dollar on that. If I was as big a fool as
he thinks I am, I might honor and respect him, but I know a thing or
two.
“Honor Smith? Ye gods! Look at the protuberances of my cranium! Gaze
upon these misshapen legs of mine! You told my mother I had ‘rickets,’
didn’t you?”
“Ye--yes, I believe I did.”
“Well, I don’t blame you for your ignorance, doctor. You have not been
in practice long enough to lose faith in human nature. Now, old Dr.
Whittemore knew better, and so does Smith.”
“But, my dear boy,” I interposed, “I think I know rachitis when I see
it.”
“So, rachitis is the scientific appellation, eh? Well, in the language
of the street, ‘rachitis nothing!’ Can’t you see through a millstone
with a hole in it? Doctor, my so-called rickets is nothing more nor
less than--”
“Hush! for the Lord’s sake, hush!” I cried, putting my hand over young
Smith’s mouth, as a horrible suspicion suddenly flashed upon me. “Be
careful, my young friend, even the walls of a doctor’s study may have
ears. Can it be possible that I have been mistaken and that--”
“Precisely so, sir,” interrupted my visitor sarcastically. “You are
really growing quite intelligent. If you keep on, doctor, you will be
as good an intuitive diagnostician as we have in Chicago, and that’s
saying much.”