DOC LOONEY
Another nondescript, whom I occasionally met prowling around among the
hills and along the beach, was known as “Doc Looney.” Catfish John said
he was a “yarb man,” and that he had been to see him sometimes when he
“felt bad.”
Doc seemed to have no fixed abode, and seemed disinclined to talk about
one. He had rather a moth-eaten appearance, and wore an old pair of
smoke-colored spectacles. He spent a great deal of time around the edges
of the little marshes, back of the hills, looking for some particular
“potential plant,” which he was never able to find.
He gave me an interesting account of Catfish John’s case, and said he
hoped to operate on him in the spring if he didn’t improve. His theory
was that the knee-joints had lost the “essential oils” that nature had
used for lubrication, and that reinforcements were needed. He intended
to “make a cut” in the side of the left knee, and “squirt some animal
oil into it.” If this worked, he would “oil up the other leg later.”
The consent of the intended victim of this experimental surgery had not
yet been obtained.
He had tried smart-weed tea, slippery elm, and snake-root on John,
internally, and fish oil and rat musk externally, without being able to
make him stop complaining. The smart-weed was to furnish the compound
with the necessary “punch.” The slippery elm was a “possible interior
lubricant,” and the snake-root was designed to impart the desired
“sinuousness and mobility” to the affected joints. The fish oil, applied
to the outside, was also to provide possible lubrication, and the
addition of the rat musk was intended “to drive it in.”
Before resorting to the operation, he was willing to try the mysterious
herb that he had been looking for all summer. Possibly this might fix
John up all right if he wouldn’t consent to the operation. Doc hoped,
however, that the operation could be arranged, as he had “never
performed one on a leg, and would like to try it.”
He believed that everybody, even when the general health was good,
should “take some powerful remedy occasionally. It would explore the
system for imperfections, find disease in unsuspected localities, and
probably eradicate it before it had a chance to form. Whatever the
remedy was good for would be headed off and it was best to take no
chances.” He thought that the medicine used “should have some bromide in
it.” He did not know exactly what the bromide did, but “anyway its a
dam’ good chemical, and it ought to be used whenever possible.”
He had what he called a “spring medicine” which I could have for half a
dollar. He stated that the compound contained “ten different and
distinct sovereign remedies and the bottle must be kept securely
corked.” The remedies were all “secret,” and “seven of them were very
powerful.” He had known of cases “in which a few doses had destroyed two
or three diseases at once, and had undoubtedly prevented others.” Used
externally, it “made an excellent liniment for bruises and sprains.” It
was also “good to rub on eruptions of any kind.”
He thought that a little whisky might help a patient of his if he could
get it to him that afternoon, and asked if I “happened to carry any.” He
suggested that I bring some the next time I “happened along, as it might
be very useful.” He seldom used it himself, except when he had “stummick
cramps,” but these were “likely to come on ’most any time”--in fact he
had had quite a severe attack about an hour before, and this was what
had reminded him of it.
He told me a long story about his matrimonial troubles. He had been
married twice, to unappreciative mates. To use his own expression, he
had been “fired” in both instances, but they were now trying to find him
again. He was a much abused man. He had been badly “stung,” and was now
“hostile toward all females.” He did not intend to get caught in their
toils again--and probably there is not much danger that he will be.
My private sympathies were entirely with these unknown irate women who
had resorted to the radical methods of which Doc complained.
He had met with some very difficult cases during the past few years.
Some of them “presented symptoms which had never been heard of before.”
In such cases it was his custom to give the patient “a certain solution
that would produce convulsions,” and, as he was “particularly strong on
convulsions,” he was usually “able to cure these in a short time.” When
the convulsions stopped, the unknown symptoms would usually disappear.
He had endeavored several times to get Catfish John to try this method,
“but for some reason he didn’t want to do it.” His fees in John’s case
had consisted of the entrée of the smoke-house that contained the fish
which had become too dead to be peddled. He did not think much of the
fish, but declared that he had got a large one there the week before,
“an’ some of it was all right.”
Sipes once suggested to John that he smoke some fish “’specially fer the
Doc,” and if he was not willing to do it, he would come up some day and
do it himself. He would “smoke some that ’ud finish the Doc in a few
hours.” John objected to this and thought that the “Doc ought to have
the same kind o’ smoked fish that other people got.” Sipes replied that
this was “pufectly satisfactory” to him.
After discoursing at length on some wonderful cures which he had
effected, in cases that “the reg’lar doctors had given up,” and the
“marvelous potentialities” of some of his secret herb extracts, and
“saline infusions, even when given in small doses,” Doc would disappear
in the gray landscape--probably absorbed in his reflections upon the
“general cussedness of womankind” and the futility of medical schools.
I was always apprehensive when he went in John’s direction, but as the
old fisherman looked comparatively well when I last saw him, it was
evident that Doc had not yet operated.
“You know it’s far be it from me to knock anybody,” said Sipes one
morning, “but this Doc Looney gives me a big chill. He’s always moseyin’
around, an’ never seems to be goin’ anywheres.
“Oncet ’e come here an’ borrowed a kittle. He took it off up the shore,
an’ that night I seen ’im with a little fire that ’e’d built on the sand
up next to the bluff, near some logs. He was roostin’ on one o’ the
logs, studyin’ sumpen that was in the kittle. I sneaked up unbeknown,
an’ watched ’im fer a long time. He kept puttin’ weeds an’ han’fulls o’
buds in the kittle an’ stirrin’ the mess with
[Illustration]
a stick. Every little while ’e’d taste o’ the dope by coolin’ the end o’
the stick an’ lickin’ it. Before I seen ’im doin’ this I thought ’e
might be mixin’ pizen. He was mixin’ sumpen all right, fer after a while
’e got the kittle offen the fire an’ let it cool a little; then ’e
dreened it into a flat bottle through a little birch bark funnel, an’
hid the bottle under a log, an’ covered it up with sand. He took my
kittle an’ stowed it in some thick brush, an’ went off up the ravine.
“He’s bin doctorin’ ol’ Catfish, an’ ’e’s always talkin’ ’bout operatin’
on ’im. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with the Catfish, ’cept ’e’s got
cricks in ’is legs, an’ they bend out when ’e walks. All ’e needs to do
is to set down instid o’ standin’ up, and ’is legs won’t bother ’im. He
comes along ’ere oncet in a while, with that ol’ honey cart that ’e
loads them much deceased fish into that ’e peddles. It ain’t no rose
garden, an’ I always stay to wind’ard when ’e’s ’round. The next time ’e
comes I’m goin’ to tell ’im wot I seen the Doc doin’. The first thing
Catfish knows Doc’ll dope ’im with that stuff in the bottle, an’ then go
after ’im with a knife. There ought to be a law aginst fellers like
that. He’s full o’ bats, an’ ’e ought to be put som’eres where they
could fly without scarin’ people.
“I never got my kittle back. I went an’ looked where I seen ’im hide it,
but ’e’d got to it first, an’ I ain’t seen it since. The next time the
Doc comes up ’ere fer a kittle ’e’ll git it out o’ the air, an’ ’e’ll
recollect it the rest of ’is life.
[Illustration:
“On the trail
of the Doc”]
“There was a funny lookin’ female come along the beach a couple o’ years
ago. She asked me if I’d ever seen a man ’round ’ere with colored
glasses, an’ I’ll bet she was on the trail o’ the Doc. She had three or
four long wire pins stickin’ through a pie shaped bunnit, with a dead
bird on it. She didn’t look good to me an’ I’d hate to ’a’ bin the Doc
if she ever got to ’im. I told ’er I wasn’t acquainted with no such
person. I may not like the Doc, but I wouldn’t steer nothin’ like that
ag’inst ’im, even if ’e did swipe my kittle. She asked me about a
thousand questions. The lake was calm an’ there was a lot o’ places out
on it where some breeze was puffin’, an’ there was a lot of other places
where it was all still an’ glassy. She wanted to know what made them
little smooth spots, an’ I told ’er that them places showed where I cut
ice out last winter.”
Catfish John said one day that “the feller that hates the Doc the worst
’round ’ere is Sipes. He gave Sipes some medicine oncet when ’e was
feelin’ poorly. It was some ’e’d bin usin’ fer a horse. He said Sipes
’ad got pips, an’ would need a lot o’ doctorin’. He kept takin’ it fer
about a week, an’ when ’e went out on the beach one day ’e thought ’e
met ’imself comin’ back, an’ ’e quit takin’ it. I guess the dope was too
strong fer ’im. After that they had a fuss about sumpen else, an’ the
old man didn’t have no use fer ’im. Sipes located a big hornet’s nest
som’eres up in the woods. He went thar one dark night an’ slipped a bag
over it so the hornets couldn’t git out, an’ carried it into the ravine
to a little path that the Doc always used when ’e went to see Sipes. He
fastened it in a bush, close to the path, so the Doc ’ud flush ’em when
’e come by. He come through several times but thar was nothin’ doin.
Sipes said the reason they didn’t sting the Doc was that they was all
friends o’ his, an’ they was all the same kind o’ critters ’e was. He
hoped they’d swarm on the Doc an’ chase ’im out o’ the county, but like
a lot of ’is plans it didn’t work.”
Sipes’s theory of the existence of a state of natural affinity between
Doc and a nest of hornets, seemed to amuse old John immensely.
“The Doc seems to think I’m goin’ to let ’im tinker my knee, but I
ain’t. He gen’rally leaves some dope that ’e cooks up ’imself fer me to
take, when ’e comes up ’ere, but I throw most of it out back o’ the
smoke-house. I let ’im leave it fer I don’t want to make ’im feel bad.
He keeps whettin’ a funny lookin’ knife when ’e’s ’ere, an’ hintin’
about sumpen ’e wants to try on my leg, but I ain’t goin’ to have no
cuttin’ done. I’ve got a new cure that I’m tryin’ now, that I ain’t
sayin’ nothin’ about.”
One cloudy day during the following fall, my friend Sipes and I went up
the shore a few miles, and landed our boat near the opening of a deep
heavily wooded ravine, through which a small creek flowed to the lake.
I intended making some sketches in the neighborhood, and Sipes offered
to accompany me. He took his gun, as he thought there might be some
“patritches” in the ravine.
We pulled the boat well up on the beach, and picked our way along
through some pine-trees and underbrush, following a narrow trail that
crossed the stream several times. We had proceeded perhaps a couple of
hundred yards, when we came to a queer looking structure, built into the
side of the ravine, which had been partially hollowed out. It was rudely
constructed of planks, short boards, and various odds and ends of
building material, which had evidently been gathered up on the beach. It
was about twelve feet long and possibly nine feet wide. There were two
windows and a door that hung on rusty hinges. One hinge had lamentably
failed to meet the necessary requirements and had been reinforced with a
heavy piece of leather, which had once been a part of an old boot.
It began to rain, and as the little hut was apparently deserted, and
seemed to offer a convenient shelter, we ventured to investigate the
interior. After removing a large accumulation of dead leaves and sand in
front of the door, we pulled it open and looked in.
[Illustration:
THE DESERTED LABORATORY]
There was a small rusty old stove, in a bad state of repair, two broken
chairs, and a table in the single room. An irregular row of bottles, of
various shapes and sizes, filled a long shelf, and sundry worthless
looking utensils were scattered about. At the end of the room was a
mildewed husk mattress on some boards which had been nailed to the ends
of four pieces of wood, about two feet from the floor. Suspended from
nails which were driven along the boards next to the roof, were large
bunches of dried plants of various kinds.
“This is ’is nest all right, an’ this is where ’e makes ’is dope,”
remarked Sipes, and a minute later he held up a battered looking object,
and exclaimed, “Dam’d if ’ere ain’t my kittle!”
We had indeed stumbled upon an abandoned secret retreat of Doc Looney.
Like an illicit still, his laboratory had been hidden in untrodden
recesses, away from the paths of men. In this quiet spot he could
meditate, and compound his mysterious “powerful remedies” with little
fear of intrusion by his female pursuers, and out of it he could emerge
and roam where his fancy led.
Into this deep seclusion the turmoil of warring schools of medicine, and
the abuse of a captious world could not come. His medicines and his
theories were beyond criticism. Such a fortress enabled him to concoct
ammunition with which to offer battle to the diseases of his kind,
without fear of capture and incarceration, which he may or may not
richly deserve.
If the motto “_similia similibus curantur_” be true, some terrible human
suffering could be alleviated with some of the stuff we found on the
shelf. Many of the bottles were empty, but we removed the stopper from
one of them, and regretted it. We were assailed by a pungent and
sickening odor. Sipes remarked that “sumpen must ’a’ crawled in that
bottle an’ died.” On taking it out to the light we discovered that it
was about half filled with angle worms, whose identity was practically
gone.
“I know wot that stuff is,” said Sipes, “it’s angle worm ile. That old
cuss said oncet ’e was goin’ to squirt some in John’s knees to make ’em
supple, when ’e operated on ’im, but John wouldn’t let ’im monkey with
’em.”
There were no labels on the bottles, with the exception of one which was
marked “Bromide.” The remaining _materia medica_ could not be
identified.
We examined the odd pieces which had been used in building the shanty,
with much interest.
The widely scattered driftwood, along the miles of curving sandy shore,
suggests many reflections to the imaginative mind. Trees that have been
washed from their footholds on the margins of distant forests--logs,
slabs, and wasted material of many kinds, incident to man’s destruction
in the wilderness--broken and lost timbers from piers, bridges and
wrecks--are among the spoils of winds and seas that are relentless.
Nature is as regardless as she is beneficent, and her storms and her
sunshine do not discriminate.
Some lonely dweller on the coast may have builded too near the abodes of
the water gods, and, in their anger they may have reached out long arms
to his humble home, and flung the fruits of his toil among the mysteries
of the deep. Some unfortunate bark may have lost its battle with the
tempest, and given its sails and timbers to the waves.
When the vagrant breezes found them, they may have wandered for many
months on the wide expanse. They may have floated in on the crests of
the singing ground swells--touched strange shores and left them--drifted
lazily in summer calms, and offered brief respites to tired wings far
out on the undulating waters. They may have been buffeted by savage seas
under angry skies, and battered among the ice fields by the winter
gales.
Like frail and feeble souls, unable to master their course, the lost and
worn timbers have been the sport of the varying winds and the playthings
of chance. They have at last found refuge and quiet on the desolate
sands. Living forces have thrown them aside and gone on.
Sometimes a name, a few letters on a plank, or a frayed piece of canvas,
will offer a clue to its origin, and tell a belated story of misfortune
somewhere out on the trackless deep.
Outside, on one of the boards used in the construction of the rude
little hut, we deciphered the name “Pauline Mahaffy.” It had evidently
come from the hull of some proud craft that had once ridden nobly
through the white-caps, and dashed the foam and spray before her. Alas,
to what a prosaic end had her destiny led her! Immured in a deep
ravine, her last sad relic--her honored name--was a part of a
disreputable shanty, and her last friend had left it to fade into
oblivion.
Even unto his solitude had femininity, in a modified form, pursued poor
Looney. Sipes, unpoetic and irreverent, found much joy in the name. He
chuckled in his glee, and mingled his mockery with his quaint
philosophy.
“Oh, Lord, if only that funny lookin’ female I told ye about, that was
huntin’ the Doc, could see this! She’d spend a few seconds on the Doc,
an’ the rest of ’er life trackin’ Pauline. She wouldn’t know nothin’
about names on ships, an’ she’d think the Mahaffy woman ’ad snared ’im
an’ took ’im away, an’ ’e was that fond of ’er that ’e put ’er name on
’is shanty.
“Mebbe she landed on ’im ’ere, an’ ’e lit out up the ravine. Them that
live in this world can make all the trouble fer themselves they want,
an’ they don’t need the help o’ nobody else, an’ I’ll bet the Doc
thought so too, an’ scooted. ‘Pauline Mahaffy!’ Gosh what a name!
Wouldn’t that blow yer hat off? He ought to ’a’ hunted fer a board that
’ad ‘Idler’ or sumpen like that on it that wouldn’t never make no
trouble. Most o’ the pleasure boats that gits wrecked is named ‘The
Idler.’ They’r mostly run by lubbers, an’ ’e wouldn’t have no trouble
findin’ one if ’e wanted a nice name to put on that old dog house.
‘Idler’ ’ud just mean that ’e wasn’t workin’, an’ you bet ’e ain’t, but
‘Pauline Mahaffy’ don’t sound good to me. I seen the old cuss less’n a
week ago, an’ ’e must ’ave another coop som’eres else. This ravine ’ud
be a good place to set some bear traps ’round in. There’s no knowin’ wot
they might ketch.”
When it stopped raining we continued our journey up the ravine to higher
ground, and walked through the woods. We finally emerged into the open
country, made a long detour, and returned to the boat.
A sketch had been made of the shanty, but we had found no “patritches.”
The old man was greatly elated over the recovery of the long lost
“kittle.” Its present value was at least questionable, but he was happy,
and he had carried it tenderly during the trip.
“When I git home,” said he, “I’ll git some sodder an’ plug it up. If
you’ve got some o’ them kind of _see_gars with you, that you gave me
the other day, I think it ’ud be nice fer us to smoke one on the
strength o’ me findin’ my kittle.”
The disreputable utensil was stowed carefully in the boat, with the rest
of our belongings, and finally reached its rightful home.
The adaptation of particular minds to particular forms of activity is
one of the most difficult problems of our highly specialized social
structure. Happiness and achievement are largely dependent upon mental
and physical harmony between the man and his task. The learned
professions, like all other mediums of human activity, carry with them
in their progress the “misfits” and the “by-products” which are
inseparable from them.
Poor old Doc Looney is both a misfit and a by-product. He is innocently
drifting in waters that are beyond his depth, and while he is of little
value in the world, his “powerful remedies,” “potential herbs” and
“infusions” will probably find but few victims.
[Illustration:
The Mysterious Tracks]