AS A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT
The magic that is in the touch of a little boy! There is nothing
like it to drive out the weariness from a heart that knows it
must not grow too tired. So now, when Dr. Redfield left the house
where he had been, it meant much to him that there should be such
a welcome awaiting him at the gate. It was a gray and worn smile,
but still a smile that answered the child's unexpected greeting,
and as the wee arms went tight about the man's neck he asked no
questions; he merely said:--
"I wish I were, little boy--I wish I were your father. We would
have a rest, wouldn't we? We would take time to know each
other."
As he said this there came into the Doctor's face the same look
which he had just seen in the eyes of the father and mother who
were trusting to him to save their little boy. Many times other
fathers and other mothers had made that mute appeal to him, and
he had done what he could for them. He had done all that could be
done. He was doing it to-day, and he had been doing it every day
these past eight weeks that had been as twenty years to him.
For a scourge had come, and the city was trembling in the fear of
it. Again Duck Town was responsible. Duck Town always was
responsible. Every spring when the floods came, and Mud Creek
spread itself out over the prairie, only the ducks of Duck Town
were secure. Then, when the waters subsided, there came malaria,
or perhaps something worse, from the musty cellars that could not
be drained. The settlement lay in the bottoms, where the wretched
dwellings of the poor stood huddled together as if in whispered
conspiracy about some black contagion of a deadlier malice than
any that had yet struck terror to the hearts of men.
Several years ago it was typhoid fever that had helped many
people to move out of Duck Town. A very badly behaved disease it
was. It came right up into the city and went stalking brazenly
into the most stately homes along the wooded avenues and
beautiful boulevards.
Next after the ravages of typhoid came diphtheria in its most
malignant form, and this time--Heaven help us!--this time scarlet
fever had come. And this time, as before, there were competent
physicians to receive the plague; there were specialists and
careful nurses with snowy aprons and pretty caps.
But not in Duck Town. Down there the people knew a man whom they
called the Old Doctor. He was not old, not really; it was merely
that he had the manner of a veteran. He browbeat them shamefully,
as was perfectly proper for an old doctor; he bullied them a
great deal, and scolded, and called names, and worked for them,
and did not know how to sleep. That made them fear and respect
him, but goodness knows what made them love him. They did,
though--feared, respected, and loved the man.
Only he could not teach them to be sanitary. He knew their names,
their silly Russian names and their silly Polish names; he knew
their Slavic and their Bohemian names, but their language he did
not know, and all the hygiene they could learn was to call for
him when sickness and trouble came to them.
"Keep clean," he would say. "Drain your cellars; air out and keep
clean; do try to keep clean!"
But how could they do that? Four big families in one small house
do not help much to keep one small house both clean and sanitary.
Dr. Redfield knew that, and he swore at Duck Town for a vile and
filthy hole. So did the people swear at Duck Town, and many of
them suddenly stopped living there. For, despite the strength and
courage of their champion; despite the potency of drugs; despite
the sleepless nights and days spent in fighting disease, the
deadly contagion grew and spread.
Dr. Redfield had gone through epidemics before, but never one
like this, and now his energy was gone. For the first time in his
life the impulse had come upon him to own defeat and surrender.
Other men, younger doctors than he, should take up the fight. As
for him, he could not battle against such odds. He would give it
up; he would go away. He would take this little boy with him and
begin to live.
"I'll do it," he said, pressing David's face against his hollow
and unshaven cheek. "I'll do it, little boy; I will be your
father."
Then David asked encouragingly:
"Is it your picture that Mother keeps in her heart?"
"No, David; not mine, I'm afraid."
This was a sad blow to the little boy. A very solemn look came
into his face.
"You won't do," he said, "unless you can get your picture into
Mother's heart."
For a second time Dr. Redfield smiled, and then he asked:
"How did you get here?"
David did not answer the question; perhaps he did not hear what
was said to him. A thoughtful look had come into his face, and
presently he was asking, with great earnestness in his voice:
"Why have I got curls for? Why don't I have trouvers? Why don't I
have warts on me?"
Dr. Redfield was walking hand in hand with the little boy at his
side. They were going toward the place where the horse and buggy
stood waiting, and as they strode along the little boy kept
falling over his chubby legs. It was hard for him to go so fast,
for he was very tired, and besides, he was looking up into the
man's face.
"Warts aren't nice for little boys," said Dr. Redfield. "You and
I don't want them on _us_, do we?"
"Don't I, please?" said David, very earnestly. Then he wanted to
know if he could not be born in Indiana. That is where Mitch
Horrigan had been born, and he was always bragging about it. But
the Doctor didn't seem to be in a conversational humor. He made
no reply to David's request, and that vexed the little boy. He
suddenly let go of the man's hand and stood still. Then the
Doctor stopped, too, and asked what was wrong. It was now that
David closed his fist upon his thumbs and frowned savagely.
"I am not," he declared; "I am not neither a girl, am I?"
The reply of his big friend was consoling, but not satisfying,
and it was some time before the man again felt the little, soft
fist in his hand and saw the little boy looking wistfully up into
his face.
"If only I had a few of them, Fav-ver Doctor," said David, "only
just a few little warts!"