MARY LEE WRITES A LETTER
Mary Lee could never remember how she managed to place the unconscious
form of the man against the tree so that the branches would afford
some shade and protection from the sun's merciless heat.
From the gate at which she was standing and from where she was
searching the road for Mary Lee's return, Mrs. Quinn saw the girl
running. She noticed her excitement and so hurried forward to meet
her.
"What is it, dear? What has happened?" she questioned anxiously.
Mary Lee told her. From the account, Mrs. Quinn judged that the man
had had an attack of sunstroke. She calmed the excited girl and
immediately went about obtaining the necessary ice to use on the
stricken man.
The girl found good use for a first aid book which had been presented
to her at one of the Campfire meetings. From it she learned that
mustard on the nape of the neck or the forehead would help to bring a
person back to consciousness. She immediately went into the kitchen
and procured some.
Mr. Quinn was not about and so the two, Mrs. Quinn with the ice and
Mary Lee with the mustard, hurried to the unconscious man, first
sending Tom after Mr. Quinn to bring the carriage to them.
They found him still unconscious. Mary Lee applied the ice and then
put a plentiful supply of the mustard upon the nape of the man's neck.
Then both watched anxiously for signs of a return to consciousness. It
seemed hours before there was a flicker of returning life; as a matter
of fact, it was less than ten minutes. When Mr. Quinn arrived with the
carriage the man had regained consciousness, but he was obviously
quite weak.
"I think we had better take him to the Sanitarium," said Mary Lee,
"they will know what to do there."
Mrs. Quinn agreed. She returned home, her husband driving toward the
Sanitarium, Mary Lee on the rear seat holding the man's head and
applying the ice. The drive was over two miles and during almost all
of that time, the sick man was either too weak to speak or lacked the
inclination to do so.
As they turned into the driveway which led to the hospital, he spoke
in a low, weak voice: "I'm sorry to give you all this trouble, young
lady. It is a misfortune for me as well as for all of you." Then he
paused for a second either through weakness or as if debating
something in his mind.
"I wonder if I can impose on your goodness a little more?" he asked as
the carriage stopped at the entrance and Mr. Quinn went inside to
speak to the proper authorities. "Could you come and see me in the
morning? I must have something attended to tomorrow and I suppose," he
continued wanly and with the ghost of a smile, "I shall have to stay
here at least that long."
"I shall be glad to come," answered Mary Lee. "Please do not worry. I
am sure that it will be but a day or two before you are up and about
again."
An interne and two orderlies now came out of the hospital door with a
stretcher. They carried the sick man into the emergency ward but would
not allow either Mr. Quinn or Mary Lee to follow. They were told that
they would probably be allowed to visit in the morning.
But the man's case was evidently quite serious. Mary Lee called the
next day and was informed that the patient had a high temperature and
that it was impossible to permit any visitors. She was not allowed to
see him until the fourth day. It worried her because of her promise
and the man's evident anxiety to have the "something" attended to at
once. On the fourth day, she was informed that the man was still weak
but had insisted on seeing her. The nurse who spoke to her warned her
not to stay too long.
Even as she opened the door she felt the surcharged eagerness of the
man. He wasted no time in any greetings.
"The doctor tells me I cannot hope to leave here for at least another
week. He claims it is under-nourishment more than the heat." He rested
a moment.
"My name is Tom Marshall," he continued slowly. "I was on my way home
from Mexico where I have been for many years. About two months ago, I
remember the day so well, the home of my mother and father and of my
early youth seemed to be calling to me in a way I could not resist. I
had been away from it for over fifteen years and not once before that
time had I been homesick or felt the desire to go home. But the new
feeling was such that a little boy feels--I wanted my mother more than
anything else in the world.
"My partner and I have a mine down there. We think it is a silver
mine, but so far it has been hard to pinch anything out of it and we
have found it a difficult matter even to exist. My partner is an
Indian but he would shame many white men. I have never known a
squarer, whiter man. He found the mine. We both feel it is certain to
make good some day.
"Enough of that, except to say that I went to him and told him how I
felt. He insisted that I make the trip home. Together, we scraped up
enough money to bring me back about half the distance. I wrote home,
the first letter I had written, I am ashamed to say, in four years. I
told mother that I was coming home and to write me to St. Louis care
of the General Delivery."
The man paused again. He was watching the girl. He seemed to regain
strength.
"I suppose you wonder why I tell you all this. You will soon see. At
St. Louis a letter was waiting for me. It was from my cousin, not from
my mother. I learned that father had died three years ago and that my
mother was very sick. She had been overjoyed at the news that I was
coming. But my cousin advised me to hasten my return, as he considered
my mother's condition extremely serious.
"I got as far as this by freight train, my money having given out at
St. Louis. The headway was slow and yet I could not stop to earn the
money to travel any other way. I have had very little food, how little
I had I never stopped to consider. My one desire has been to get
home."
[Illustration: THE SICK MAN DICTATES A LETTER]
"You see," the man continued in an eager way, "it seems that all the
desire to see mother that I should have had all these years is crowded
into the present. I had figured on cutting through to the river and
stowing myself in one of the boats which would bring me nearer home;
but the heat and the lack of food were too much for me, and here I
am."
The man paused once more. Mary Lee wondered if she were not staying
too long; if the man were not going past his strength. Yet he seemed
anxious to complete what he had to say.
"I have prayed that my mother live till I reach home. I want her to
know that I am delayed. Will you please write my cousin? Tell him that
I am very near and that I shall soon be well enough, but that he must
not tell mother about my illness, just that I am surely coming. He
must also let me know at once how she is.
"You see, young lady, I cannot write myself just now, as the doctors
think I am still too weak. I wanted this letter written four days ago.
I am sure you will write understandingly. Will you do it for me?"
"I shall be very glad to," answered Mary Lee. "I am going to ask your
cousin to telegraph regarding your mother's condition."
The man nodded as if too spent to talk further. He handed Mary Lee a
crumpled slip of paper on which was written the address for the
letter.