When a man of thirty who has been sound and well since boyhood suddenly
realizes there is something radically wrong with him, it amounts almost
to a tragedy.
It was mid-March when I became convinced that I was "wrong." Near the
close of winter I had developed a hacking cough with occasional chest
pains, but with masculine mulishness had refused to recognize any
untoward symptoms. I was not a sissy, to let a common cold frighten me
and send me trembling to the doctor. I began to lose flesh and grow
pale, whereas I had been of fine frame, and decidedly athletic. Then I
discovered a fleck of crimson on my handkerchief one day after a hard
coughing spell. I got up from my desk with unsteady knees and a chilly
feeling down my spine, and went to 'Crombie. He was generally known as
Abercrombie Dane, M. D., but we grew up hand in hand, as it were, and
so--I went to 'Crombie. He was a fine, big animal; head of a Hercules
and strength of a jack and sense like Solon. A rare man.
I told him my tale shamefacedly, for I realized now I had acted a fool,
and that maybe my day of grace had passed. He knew I was scared, for he
was sensitive, in spite of his bulk and seeming brusqueness. There was
pity in his eyes before I finished, and I had to grapple with myself to
keep the moisture out of mine, his sympathy was so real.
Then I silently gave him the handkerchief, with the telltale stain.
He looked at it absently, and rubbed it gently with the tip of one big
finger.
"My son," he said--it was an affectionate form of address which he
nearly always employed--"you are starting a colony."
His deep voice was very steady.
"A _what_?" I demanded.
"Bugs," he replied, laconically, and looked me squarely in the eyes.
"_Bugs!_" I cried, feeling the cold hand of Fear at my heart.
He shut his lips tightly, and nodded three or four times.
For a few moments I was literally and positively paralyzed. I felt as if
he had pronounced sentence of death. 'Crombie had dropped his eyes, and
his broad, strong face was serious.
My nature is buoyant, and presently the reaction came.
"Are they crawlin' yet, Doc?" I asked, a smile struggling to my lips.
I cannot understand now why I asked that question. Perhaps it was a
foolish attempt at bravado in the presence of a serious fact just
discovered.
He did not answer. He recognized the query as flippant, and his nature
was deep. He sat looking at the floor a long time, and I did not intrude
again upon his thoughts. But I imagined I felt a tickling beneath my
ribs, as of many tiny feet at work. _Bugs!_ Ugh!
At last 'Crombie's shaggy head came up.
"There's a chance--a good chance," he said, and I felt courage spreading
through me like wine, for 'Crombie never spoke hastily, nor at random.
"Sea voyages and high altitudes wouldn't hurt," he resumed, "but you
haven't the money for them. Still you've got to hike from town, my son.
Change is all right, but pure air and coarse, good food is your cue. The
knob country is not far away. There you'll find all you'd find in New
Mexico or Colorado or Arizona, and be in praying distance of the
Almighty to boot. I know the spot for you, my son. It is a great knob
which stands in the midst of a vast range, and it is belted with pine
and cedar trees. Find or build you a shack on it half way up and stay
there for a year. That's your prescription, my son."
"It's a devilish hard one to take!" I protested, in my ignorance.
"Condemned men are not usually so particular as to their method of
escape," he admonished, with a half smile.
Then he fell to thinking again, with his finger on his eyebrow. It was a
peculiar attitude, which I had never seen in anyone else. I sat still,
hoping he was evolving some pleasanter plan for my redemption. He was
trying to change me into a hillbilly, a savage! I looked at my white
hands and carefully kept nails, at my neat business suit and shining
shoes, and a slow rebellion awoke within me. I had about decided to
ignore 'Crombie and seek more comforting advice, when his rumbling voice
came again.
"It's mighty good authority which says you can't kick against the
pricks. Don't try it, my son. Before we begin final arrangements I want
to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of the life-plant?"
I gazed at him keenly, for the query did not savor of sanity. I knew
that his researches in botany almost equalled his skill in medicine, but
in some vague way I suspected a trick. His expression disarmed me. It
not only was genuine, but yearning. I have never seen the same look in a
man's eyes before or since.
"No; I never heard of it," I replied. "What is it?"
His answer was spoken slowly and meditatively.
"From the same source we get our hint regarding the pricks, we read of a
tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. Nature is the
mother of medicine. There is nothing in pharmaceutics that has not a
direct origin from vegetable, animal, or mineral life. It is my belief
that there is a remedy for every human ill if we could only lay our
hands on it. This brings us to your case, and the life-plant."
"Are you giving me straight goods, 'Crombie'?" I demanded, my suspicions
rising again.
"It is half legend, my son, I'll admit, but I have strong reasons for
believing it does exist. It's an Indian tale."
"Probably bosh," I muttered, my common sense at bay.
"I think not," he answered, calmly and soberly.
"Have you ever seen it?" I challenged.
"No, but that doesn't disprove it. Listen to me. The life-plant is the
most peculiar growth in nature, and cannot be confounded with anything
else. The principal accessories to its full development are pure air and
sunshine, hence it is found only in the still places of the woods and
valleys. It is exceedingly rare. You might spend a year searching for it
under the most favorable conditions, and find only one specimen. Again,
you might find none. So far as science has gone, it grows from neither
seed, bulb, nor root. It seems to germinate from certain elemental
conjunctions, attains maturity, flowers and dies. It may appear in the
cleft of a rock, on the side of a mountain range, or in the rich mold of
a valley. It claims no special season for its own, but may come in
December as well as in June. It springs from snow as frequently as from
summer grass. This is how it looks. It is about twelve inches high. Its
stem is a most vivid green; its leaves are triangular, of a bright
golden color, and the flower, which comes just at the top, is a
collection of clear little globules, like the berries of the mistletoe.
They are clearer and purer than the mistletoe berry, however. In fact,
they are all but transparent, and might readily be mistaken for a
cluster of dewdrops. Therein lies the efficacy of this strange plant.
Gather the bloom carefully, immerse it in a glass of water for twelve
hours, then drink the decoction entire. It will rout your embryo colony,
and make you sound and strong as I."
He leaned back and slapped his chest with his open hand.
"You're dopey, 'Crombie," I said, doubting, but longing to believe him.
He wheeled around to his desk.
"All right, my son. You came to me for advice, and got it. I consider
that I've done my duty by you."
"Oh, come now!" I pleaded, ready to conciliate. "That's an awful
cock-and-bull story you've handed me, and you mustn't get huffy if it
doesn't go down without choking. I'll try to swallow it, 'Crombie. I do
appreciate your advice, and I'm going to try and take it;--but tell me
more about this infernal flower."
"Not infernal," he corrected, mollified; "but supernal. I don't think
there's any more to tell. Your stunt is to search till you find it, then
follow directions."
"You say it grows anywhere?" I continued, assuming interest.
"Where there's pure air and sunshine," he repeated.
"And grows out of _snow_, 'Crombie?"
"As well as out of warm soil," he averred, doggedly.
"It appears to me that you're looney, 'Crombie, but I hope you're not,
and I'll hunt for your bloomin' life-plant. But the question now is: who
is going with me into my hill of refuge?"
"Who's going with you? Nobody! Who would go with you? People nowadays
have neither time nor inclination to burrow in the wilderness for a
twelve-month!"