This was the most absurd and unreasonable request that had ever been
made of him--which was saying a good deal, for his generosity was well
known, and full advantage was taken of it. And yet, somehow, the
incident touched and troubled him. He couldn’t forget the passionate
earnestness of the old Irishwoman.
“Nonsense! Nonsense! Nonsense!” he said half aloud, and sat down at the
table.
Before him stood a plate of that stew. He tasted it.
“It’s--cold,” he observed, in an apologetic tone.
In his heart he was afraid of Mrs. MacAdams. She was such a resigned,
subdued woman, and always so completely in the right, that he felt
vaguely guilty every time he saw her.
“I thought you would be in a hurry, doctor,” she said faintly. “I had no
idea you would stay out in the hall so long, talking to that person.”
“No, no, of course you didn’t,” Dr. Joe hastily assured her. “Quite all
right, Mrs. MacAdams. Many of ’em in the waiting room?”
“I believe I opened the door six times,” she answered, with angelic
patience.
He felt guiltier than ever. The feeling that he was a tyrant to Mrs.
MacAdams mingled with a wretched conviction that he had been unduly
abrupt with the poor old woman in the hall, until he saw himself as an
utterly heartless bully. He couldn’t bear it.
“I just want to see,” he murmured, with an ingratiating smile, and,
getting up, opened the dining room door.
Katie was gone. The high-backed chair was occupied by the little
red-haired boy, who sat there with his head thrown back and his eyes
fixed on the ceiling.
“Now see here!” said Dr. Joe indignantly. “Did she--did your nurse go
off and leave you here?”
“Yes, she did,” answered Frankie.
“Well, you can’t stay here,” the doctor told him.
Without a word Frankie rose, took up his cap, and walked off down the
passage.
“Here, wait a minute!” called Dr. Joe. “You can’t go off like that!”
Frankie stopped and turned.
“You told me I couldn’t stay,” he said.
The child’s manner was not in any way defiant or impertinent, but he
certainly was not abashed. He stood, cap in hand, looking straight into
the doctor’s face; and though he was by no means a handsome child, being
slight, pale, and undersized for his years, there was something in that
straightforward glance which Dr. Joe found very attractive.
“See here, my boy!” he said. “What put the idea of being a doctor into
your head, anyhow?”
“It just came,” said Frankie. “When I was in the hospital. When I had
pneumonia last winter. In New York. The internes used to talk to me. And
I liked it.”
“Didn’t like the pneumonia, did you?” asked Dr. Joe.
“I didn’t care,” said Frankie. “I liked to be there. I liked--” He
paused. “I liked the smell of the hospital,” he continued earnestly.
“You’re a funny kid!” said Dr. Joe, laughing.
Frankie did not seem to care for this. He turned away again and made for
the door, and this time Dr. Joe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t care!” said the boy.
Now the words themselves had very little significance; it was the spirit
behind them that conquered Dr. Joe. The boy was obviously frightened by
that heavy hand on his shoulder. He was only eight, and he lived in a
child’s world. He had no understanding of these all-powerful grown
people, who laughed or flew into tempers for no reason at all. He
thought Dr. Joe was angry, and he was frightened--his eyes showed that;
but his mouth set in a firm, sulky line, and once more he declared that
he didn’t care.
“By Jove!” cried Dr. Joe. “I will take you!”