When Glenning opened his eyes the next morning he lay quiet a long time,
staring at the figure seated by his bedside. At first he was at a total
loss to understand where he was, but a sharp pain in his lungs when he
breathed, and sundry irritating, prickly places about his face and head,
brought back to him the events of the past night. But he was a
philosophical fellow, and while he felt a deep gratitude welling up in
his heart for young Tom Dillard, he could not help smiling at the
appearance his newly-found friend presented that morning. It was quite
plain to Glenning's still befuddled intellect that Dillard had elected
to stay with him and take care of him during the night. The bank clerk's
figure was almost corpulent in daylight, and this was emphasized by the
attitude he had assumed. He had evidently determined not to go to sleep,
but the relaxation and absolute quiet succeeding the excitement at the
burning of the stable had proven too much for him. Now he sat with his
heels on a rung of the chair, his knees drawn up, while his head had
sunk forward till it almost touched them. In this position he bore a
striking resemblance to a butterball, and when Glenning first saw him he
was slumbering with much effort, because his breathing was hampered by
his cramped posture. There was something in it all over-poweringly
funny to John, and presently he chuckled aloud. Whereupon his watcher
gave a little snort and opened his eyes, round, blue, and innocent as a
child's.
"Bless me, if I haven't been asleep!" exclaimed Dillard, a bit
sheepishly. Then--"How are you feeling, doctor?"
"Chipper as a lark--considering!" was the hearty answer. "But I hope
I'll never come closer to hell than I did last night," he added.
Dillard shivered at the recollection, and a look of commiseration crept
to his face.
"It's clear past me how you did it," he replied, candidly. "Log chains
and a traction engine couldn't have pulled me in that place. But you've
fixed yourself all right with the people, I guess. I'll bet your name
has gone all over this old town long before now."
"I didn't do it for what the people would think, though I do want their
good will. But did you see the look on that girl's face when she spoke?
I couldn't have done anything else. Where are we?--hotel?"
"Yes, this is your room at the Union House. We thought you were out of
the game for good at first. You don't remember anything after the horse
ran over you? Well, the Dudley's old nigger, Peter, dragged you away
from the heat, and Miss Julia made a pillow of her lap for your head.
They were for taking you up to the house and caring for you, for you did
them a greater service than you'll ever know when you pulled that
obstreperous colt out of the fire. But I knew that wouldn't do, because
they're not situated to entertain well folks, let alone sick ones, so I
got a buggy, piled you in, and drove here as fast as I could. As luck
would have it, old Doctor Kale was passing just as we got here--had been
making a country call--and I hailed him. We got you up here and brought
you around, though I don't suppose you remember anything about it, for
you were kind o' flighty. Old Kale washed you off and patched you up,
and gave you something to make you sleep soundly. I volunteered to sit
up with you and watch, but I played the devil a-doin' it! Kale said he'd
call around again this mornin' to see you. He's a gruff old cuss, but
good hearted. He often swears at his men patients if they don't obey him
to the letter. I tell you this now, so you won't be surprised at
anything he may say to you."
Glenning put out a blackened hand from the back of which the hair had
been singed away. Dillard saw his intention, and took it readily.
"I hope you'll let me be your friend," said the new doctor, appreciation
beaming in his eyes. "I can't tell you just all I feel for the way
you've stuck by me, a total stranger, who had not the slightest claim
upon your time, or care. But I shan't forget it. A life-long chum
couldn't have done more, and I want to assure you that my gratitude is
the kind that lasts. I don't know what's in store for me here, but I've
come to stay. And I'm going to make good if toil, and hard work, and
conscientious pains count for anything. I was climbing fast back--where
I came from, but it became best for me to leave. Not because I had to.
There's nothing back there I'm ashamed of. You're the first person here
who's been kind to me, and I did nothing to deserve it. I shall remember
it always."
He pressed the soft, flabby hand which he held, and withdrew his arm.
Dillard's face reddened at this speech. He made a few awkward movements
with his hands, and then spoke, in an abashed way.
"I've done nothin', doctor, to make a fuss about, but I'll be mighty
glad to be your friend. I imagine a fellow with the stuff in him that
you are made of would be worth having for a friend."
He drew out his watch and looked at it, rising quickly as he noted the
time.
"It's getting late. By the time I get breakfast and reach the bank it'll
be close onto nine. I'm glad you're lookin' so well. Don't try to get up
today. I'll call in at noon for a minute. Good-bye."
He leaned over the bed and pressed Glenning's hand again, then took his
hat and withdrew, closing the door gently behind him.
When his fat friend had departed, Glenning mechanically sent his eyes
around the room. It contained, besides the bed upon which he lay, the
customary washstand, dresser, table and two chairs. His clothes lay upon
one of these chairs, and he looked in a rather disinterested way at the
scorched and burned garments, now rendered totally useless. Then his
mind flew back to those awful moments in the stall with The Prince, and
he shut his eyes and groaned audibly. The door to his room opened, and
he heard the clinking of dishes. He looked, and saw a waiter bearing a
tray to the table in the center of his room. The young fellow deposited
his burden, then glanced towards the bed with respectful eyes, as some
might gaze upon a hero overthrown.
"Here's your breakfast, sir. I'll bring it closer if you want me to. Mr.
Dillard told us you were awake and feeling pretty well, so Mr. Travers
thought you might be hungry."
"Thank you," returned Glenning. "I'll be getting up presently. You
needn't wait."
The boy moved reluctantly to the door. He had his hand on the knob, then
turned.
"I didn't go to the burnin' o' ol' man Dudley's barn," he vouchsafed, in
a rather high, scared voice, "but if I'd knowed what you's goin' to do I
wouldn't 'a' missed seein' you pull that hoss out. The town's wild about
it."
Without waiting for a reply of any sort, the speaker ducked through the
door and slammed it after him. It had taken a deal of courage for him to
deliver his speech, but he was determined to say it.
Glenning eyed the disarray of dishes dubiously. Some of them appeared
cold, while the faint odour which crept to his nostrils from the others
was not at all savory. But the rich aroma of coffee blended with the
other smells, and he was on the verge of making an effort to rise when
there came a faint rap upon his door. It was so faint that John was not
sure he had heard it. He was quite certain there had been no sound of
footsteps. As he lay with his head in an expectant attitude the rap came
again--two little pecking knocks, given timorously. The man on the bed
relaxed, drew the cover which he had thrown partly aside up to his chin,
and invited whoever it was to enter, in a fairly strong voice.
Then a most extraordinary thing happened at the door. The knob was
deliberately turned, then released. Again it was turned, and the door
carefully opened about two inches. It remained this way for the space of
a breath or two, then the aperture was widened by perhaps another two
inches. Glenning was puzzled. If some one was pranking, the sport was
certainly very innocent. By almost imperceptible degrees the door kept
coming open, and then a bald, brown, sleek skull, surrounded by a fringe
of white wool, came within the range of vision of the watcher on the
bed. Peter looked slowly all around the room, and the last object his
eyes alighted upon was the man. Then he completed his entrance in a
comparatively rapid manner, bobbing his head unceasingly, and being
careful to see that the door was latched behind him. Then he bowed
profoundly.
"Mawnin', suh! I hope you's bettuh, suh! De Prince am not hu't much, 'n'
de folks feel putty peart, suh! De Lawd bress yo', suh--doctuh--'n' keep
yo' twel de day o' Jedgment fo' savin' dat' deah colt whut would 'a'
buhned to a cracklin' but fo' you. Yes, suh! Dis ol nigguh gwi' ax de
Lawd's blessin' on you night 'n' mawnin', 'n' I'm 'bleeged to yo', suh,
fo' whut you done las' night!"
Glenning had no difficulty in recognizing in his effusive caller the old
negro who had played a star part in the barn lot. But there was
something which claimed his attention above the volubility of Peter, and
that was a square envelope, tinted a delicate blue, which the darky
carried in one of his wrinkled hands.
"Thank you, old gentleman," he said, "for your interest and your
kindness. I hope the Dudleys did not suffer from exposure last night."
"De young missus tek a li'l col', suh, but de Major, suh, am all
right--I'm 'bleeged to yo'." He made another profound obeisance. "I wuz
sent dis mawnin', suh--doctuh--by de folks to 'quiah ob yo' health, suh,
'n' gib dis lettuh into yo' han'. It was writ by de Major, 'n' gib to me
by de young missus, who says, says she--'Peter, gib dis to de man whut
save our Prince, 'n' to nobody else.' Here it am, suh. I cyaried it on
top o' my haid under my hat right to yo' do', kase I's feared I'd lose
it."
He shambled across the room and gave the missive to the hand stretched
out to receive it.
"I mus' be goin' now, suh--doctuh--but I's 'spressly to ax how yo' wuz?"
"Present my sympathy and respects to your folks, and assure them I am
not hurt--only a few bruises and burns which do not annoy me in the
least. Say, in fact, that you left me feeling well."
"Thank yo', suh--doctuh--'n' you're a man whut _is_ a man!"
With this parting encomium, which to his mind represented the acme of
praise, Peter shuffled to the door, bowed again, and went out.
"Heigh-ho!" mused Glenning. "It seems, indeed, that 'there is a tide in
the affairs of men.' From what I can hear I have started in well. Let's
see what that fine looking old gentleman has to say."
Tearing the tough fibre of the paper with some difficulty, he drew out
the folded sheet, and opened it. The handwriting was angular, legible,
and painfully correct. The ink was brownish, as though it had been
watered often. He read rapidly.
"DEAR DOCTOR GLENNING:
"This morning we learned the name of the heroic stranger who
did us such unparalleled service last night upon the occasion
of the burning of our stable. We wish to convey to you at the
earliest moment a sense of our profound gratitude for your
noble act. My daughter and I feel that we can never repay the
debt under which you have placed us by your marvelous bravery.
I shall call this afternoon to thank you in person, and I pray
you will at all times consider our house your own. The colt is
practically uninjured. It is our prayer that you have not
suffered seriously.
"Your obliged and obedient servant,
"THOMAS DUDLEY."
"Fine!" breathed Glenning. "A little stilted, perhaps, but true and
sincere. He means every word. Writes like a Clay or a Webster. There's
blood back of it--Kentucky bluegrass blood. And she--she did not know she
was a queen of tragedy last night when she made her appeal. Who could
that have been who tried to get in ahead of me? Ugh! He was a devil! When
she saw him coming she looked daggers of scorn and contempt. There's
something back of it all, I'll wager. Could that terrible thing dare to
love her, I wonder? If he does, it's one-sided. But she's beautiful! I'd
go into another burning stable tonight if she looked at me as she did
then, and asked me."
As he folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope he
suddenly realized that his coffee must be getting cold. He smiled at the
incongruity of the thought, but he was very hungry, so he essayed to
rise. The effort necessary to get onto his elbow brought numerous
darting pains to a dozen places at once, and made his temples throb. But
his firm jaws were not for nothing, and presently his feet were on the
floor and he was standing upright, dizzy, and holding to the head of the
bed. His chest burned as though coals of fire were laid upon it. He
waited a few moments, battling with physical weakness, then steered an
uncertain course for the washstand. How sweet was the touch of cool
water on his hot, parched face! He dashed it over his head and neck and
face by the handsful and felt his brain clear as if by magic. And there
is magic in a basin of cold water, as anyone can testify. Directly he
set about dressing. His trunk and suit case sat in a corner, and when he
had donned underwear, shirt and trousers his strength left him, and he
feebly sought a chair by the table and gulped down the coffee. Then, by
sheer force of will, he began to eat. The food was half cold, and not
good. It would not have been good had it come just from the oven, but it
gave strength, nevertheless. The man felt the elation of returning
vigour as he ate. His meal was not half finished when a hurried,
thumping step was heard in the corridor without, his door was
unceremoniously and roughly opened, and Doctor Kale entered. He was a
man getting along in life; full bearded, grizzled. His beard and hair
curled slightly, and beneath his rather heavy brows keen, kind eyes
danced incessantly. He was not very particular as to his apparel. His
clothing was baggy, and none too clean. He wore boots, with his trousers
legs pulled down over them. His vest was secured by the bottom button
alone. There was a row of buttons, but only one was used. This left
exposed to fullest view a shirt front which had doubtless been clean
when the garment to which it belonged had been first put on, but which
was now flecked and streaked with yellow stains which showed plainly
that its wearer used tobacco. A derby hat of a past age was on his head,
and he carried a medicine case much battered from long use. His right
leg was shorter than his left--rheumatism had done it--and this
accounted for his peculiar gait. He stopped in blank surprise for a
moment when he saw his erstwhile patient sitting up and eating, then the
vials of his wrath exploded.
"What in the devil do you mean by getting up, young man?" he thundered.
"Get back in bed! You'll die! You won't live till night!"
He placed his case on the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket and
removed his hat, and fiercely took a turn or two up and down the room,
mopping his head and face as he went. It was well for Glenning that a
friend had prepared him for this visit.
"Pardon me for not rising to meet you, Doctor Kale," he said, feeling
his risibles stirring, and endeavoring to maintain a steady countenance.
"But I feel much better, thanks to your attention."
"Any fool could have washed the dirt off and stuck court plaster on
you," growled the caller, still belligerent. "How do you know my name,
and who told you you might get up?"
"The young man who spent the night with me told me you would call this
morning, and I got tired lying in bed with nothing the matter with me--"
"Nothing the matter with you! Why, you're burned, and cut, and thumped,
and bruised. It's a wonder the Lord let you off alive for being such an
idiot. It seems to me you'd have had better sense than to go in a
burning stable just to pull out one good-for-nothing horse which don't
earn its hay!"
"Circumstances were such that I had no other choice," answered Glenning,
a bit distantly.
"Circumstances!" sniffed Doctor Kale. "Yes, I heard about the
circumstances, and when you've lived as long as I have, you won't butt
your head into a little hell every time a pretty girl winks!"
The blood rushed to John's face, and even Dillard's warning did not
serve to check his tongue.
"She didn't wink!" he retorted, rather hotly. "But she asked for help,
and I gave it to her, as any man would!"
The caller cast a sidelong glance at the figure by the table, then
stumped over to the bed and sat down upon it.
"Tom Dillard told me that you were the new doctor the _Herald_ said was
coming here to locate, and that your name was Glenning."
"Yes, John Glenning is my name, and my profession is the same as yours."
"Well, it's a damn bad one!" ejaculated Doctor Kale. "That is, the
profession ain't so bad, but it's a worrisome and unappreciative life.
It's a hard way to earn a living, young man, and if you hadn't started
in it I'd advise you to try something else, even if it was beating rock
on the county road. People expect you to be always ready, day or night,
to jump up and run to them, even if you are sick yourself. Then you are
the last man they want to pay when it comes time to settle, and they
always think you're trying to rob them. I've worn my life away trying to
serve them, and they call me a skinflint and a miser because I own one
or two nigger shacks and try to save what little I make! You've come to
a mighty poor place to make your fortune, and it's a mighty hard life
you're beginning."
"I've practiced some already, and did not find the work hard, or
uncongenial. And I also found people very obliging. But I love the
work, doctor, and I suspect that counts for a great deal!"
"Love it!" snorted Doctor Kale; "I never did love it! It's slavery--a
dog's life! Here, last night, I was coming in from the country tired to
death and headed for bed, when that fool Dillard held me up and hauled
me up here to work on you! Don't you see? Work, work, work!"
"But that's what we're put here for. Employment is our salvation.
Suppose everybody stopped work. What would happen to the world?... But
you did a good job with me, and you must permit me to compliment your
skill."
Unknowingly Glenning had found the vulnerable spot in the old fellow's
armour. His eyes took on a kinder gleam, but the look he bent on the
young man was not unmixed with suspicion.
"Think I helped you, eh? Maybe I did. I've fooled around diseased and
mistreated bodies the most of a lifetime, and I ought to know something,
if I don't. Where're you from? The _Herald_ said, but I can't remember."
"Jericho. It's rather in the northeastern part of the State. Not large;
something like this place in population."
"D'you take this for a hamlet, young man?" fired up Doctor Kale. "Fifth
class city, sir, and we're growin' by the minute."
"No offense, I'm sure," smiled Glenning. "You must remember I haven't
seen your tow--city, by daylight."
"You've seen the prettiest thing in it by firelight, though."
A swift change had come over the combative features of Doctor Kale, and
his wrinkled face bore a reminiscent look. There was a distant
expression in his eyes; he seemed to be gazing into the past.
Glenning pushed the tray and its contents away and leaned his head on
his hand.
"The prettiest woman in the county, and I might say in Kentucky," mused
the man on the bed.
He got up and walked limping to his patient, and as he began an
examination of hidden bandages and general physical condition his flow
of talk continued in a wonderfully changed and melodious voice.
"I've known the family always. These hands were the first hands which
touched that little girl when she came into the world, and I've watched
her in sickness and in health up till now. Julia's as sweet as God could
make her, and that's about as sweet as a woman can get. The old Major's
game, and stiff, and proud as the devil, and poor as Lazarus, but he's a
gentleman; a gentleman, sir, who'd pawn his last coat to pay a debt and
go through the winter in his shirt sleeves. I could never get closer
than arm's length to the Major, but Julia--" His voice stopped, and
Glenning, stealing a glance at his face, saw that his lips were tight
and he was slowly shaking his head. "She's a wonderful girl," he
resumed, presently, while his hands glided deftly about here and there.
"She came to me once when nobody else would have done in her place, when
my greatest sorrow was on me, and I won't forget it--_I won't forget
it_--I'll tell it to God Almighty when we stand before Him together!"
Glenning had no words in which to answer this unusual discourse. He
remained silent, and presently the doctor stepped aside.
"I swear you seem fit as a fiddle!" he avowed, in his old peremptory
tones. "You must be a tough nut. How do you feel? Any internal pains?"
His patient drew a long breath, and a grimace which he could not check
in time shot over his face.
"Don't lie to me, you young rascal! Where does it hurt?"
"Inside; here."
The speaker placed his hand on his right lung.
"It ought to hurt there, for you've a bruise as big as a soup plate.
Nothing dangerous, but you must be careful. Stay in this room for two
days, anyway, and lie down most of the time. Do you promise?"
"I suppose I'll have to," replied Glenning, somewhat ruefully.
Doctor Kale thumped over to his hat and medicine case. Jamming the hat
on his head till it almost rested on his ears, he grabbed his case, then
swung around and gazed keenly at the new doctor.
"Are you married?" he demanded, abruptly, and in a manner which in
anyone else would have been highly impertinent.
"No," was the answer, given quite gravely.
A meaningless snort greeted this inoffensive monosyllable. Then Doctor
Kale began to parade the room, thumping and storming.
"Why in hell ain't you? A doctor ought to be married--adds to his
respectability. And here you come sneakin' into Macon not married!"
He stopped about three feet in front of the figure in the chair.
"I may be a rascal, as some people say, but I'm no fool. You're not
married, and you went into a fiery furnace to save Julia Dudley's horse.
Now I've got this to say. The man who gets her has me to reckon with as
well as the old Major. Damned if he don't have to _prove_ himself, and
be as clean as a white-washed wall! Good morning, sir!"
He stamped to the door, went out, slammed it furiously behind him, and
was gone.