DOCTOR PATSY
Next morning Uncle John and the Weldons--including the precious
baby--went for a ride into the mountains, while Beth and Patsy took their
embroidery into a sunny corner of the hotel lobby.
It was nearly ten o'clock when A. Jones discovered the two girls and came
tottering toward them. Tottering is the right word; he fairly swayed as
he made his way to the secluded corner.
"I wish he'd use a cane," muttered Beth in an undertone. "I have the
feeling that he's liable to bump his nose any minute."
Patsy drew up a chair for him, although he endeavored to prevent her.
"Are you feeling better this morning?" she inquired.
"I--I think so," he answered doubtfully. "I don't seem to get back my
strength, you see."
"Were you stronger before your accident?" asked Beth.
"Yes, indeed. I went swimming, you remember. But perhaps I was not
strong enough to do that. I--I'm very careful of myself, yet I seem to
grow weaker all the time."
There was a brief silence, during which the girls plied their needles.
"Are you going to stay in this hotel?" demanded Patsy, in her blunt way.
"For a time, I think. It is very pleasant here," he said.
"Have you had breakfast?"
"I took a food-tablet at daybreak."
"Huh!" A scornful exclamation. Then she glanced at the open door of
the dining-hall and laying aside her work she rose with a determined
air and said:
"Come with me!"
"Where?"
For answer she assisted him to rise. Then she took his hand and marched
him across the lobby to the dining room.
He seemed astonished at this proceeding but made no resistance. Seated
at a small table she called a waitress and said:
"Bring a cup of chocolate, a soft-boiled egg and some toast."
"Pardon me, Miss Doyle," he said; "I thought you had breakfasted."
"So I have," she replied. "The breakfast I've ordered is for you, and
you're going to eat it if I have to ram it down your throat."
"But--Miss Doyle!"
"You've told us you are doomed. Well, you're going to die with a
full stomach."
"But the doctor--"
"Bother the doctor! I'm your doctor, now, and I won't send in a bill,
thank your stars."
He looked at her with his sad little smile.
"Isn't this a rather high-handed proceeding, Miss Doyle?"
"Perhaps."
"I haven't employed you as my physician, you know."
"True. But you've deliberately put yourself in my power."
"How?"
"In the first place, you tagged us here to this hotel."
"You don't mind, do you?"
"Not in the least. It's a public hostelry. In the second place, you
confided to us your disease and your treatment of it--which was really
none of our business."
"I--I was wrong to do that. But you led me on and--I'm so lonely--and you
all seemed so generous and sympathetic--that I--I--"
"That you unwittingly posted us concerning your real trouble. Do you
realize what it is? You're a hypo--hypo--what do they call
it?--hypochondriac!"
"I am not!"
"And your doctor--your famous specialist--is a fool."
"Oh, Miss Doyle!"
"Also you are a--a chump, to follow his fool advice. You don't need
sympathy, Mr. A. Jones. What you need is a slapstick."
"A--a--"
"A slapstick. And that's what you're going to get if you don't
obey orders."
Here the maid set down the breakfast, ranging the dishes invitingly
before the invalid. His face had expressed all the emotions from
amazement to terror during Patsy's tirade and now he gazed from her firm,
determined features to the eggs and toast, in an uncertain, helpless way
that caused the girl a severe effort to curb a burst of laughter.
"Now, then," she said, "get busy. I'll fix your egg. Do you want more
sugar in your chocolate? Taste it and see. And if you don't butter that
toast before it gets cold it won't be fit to eat."
He looked at her steadily now, again smiling.
"You're not joking, Miss Doyle?"
"I'm in dead earnest."
"Of course you realize this is the--the end?"
"Of your foolishness? I hope so. You used to eat like a sensible boy,
didn't you?"
"When I was well."
"You're well now. Your only need is sustaining, strengthening food. I
came near ordering you a beefsteak, but I'll reserve that for lunch."
He sipped the chocolate.
"Yes; it needs more sugar," he said quietly. "Will you please butter my
toast? It seems to me such a breakfast is worth months of suffering. How
delicious this egg is! It was the fragrance of the egg and toast that
conquered me. That, and--"
"And one sensible, determined girl. Don't look at me as if I were a
murderess! I'm your best friend--a friend in need. And don't choke down
your food. Eat slowly. Fletcherize--chew your food, you know. I know
you're nearly famished, but you must gradually accustom yourself to a
proper diet."
He obeyed meekly. Patsy's face was calm, but her heart beat fast, with a
thrill of fear she could not repress. Acting on impulse, as she had, the
girl now began to consider that she was personally responsible for
whatever result might follow this radical treatment for dyspepsia. Had
she been positive it _was_ dyspepsia, she would never have dared
interfere with a doctor's orders; but she felt that the boy needed food
and would die unless he had it. He might die from the effect of this
unusual repast, in which case she would never forgive herself.
Meantime, the boy had cast aside all fear. He had protested, indeed, but
his protests being overruled he accepted his food and its possible
consequences with philosophic resignation and a growing satisfaction.
Patsy balked on the third slice of toast and took it away from him. She
also denied him a second cup of chocolate. He leaned back in his chair
with a sigh of content and said:
"Bless the hen that laid that egg! No dainty was ever more delicious. And
now," he added, rising, "let us go and inquire the address of a good
undertaker. I have made my will, and I'd like to be cremated--it's so
much nicer than the old-fashioned burial, don't you think?"
"I'll attend to all that, if you wish," she replied, trying to repress a
shudder as she followed him from the room. "Do you smoke?"
"I used to, but the doctor forbade it; so I gave it up entirely."
"Go over to that stand and buy a cigar. Then you may sit beside Beth and
me and smoke it."
The girl did not wholly approve of smoking and had often chided Uncle
John and her father and Arthur Weldon for indulging in the habit; but
this advice to young Jones was given in desperation, because all the men
of her family stoutly affirmed that a cigar after a meal assisted
digestion. She resumed her former seat beside Beth, and her cousin
quickly read the anxiety on her face.
"What did you do, Patricia?"
"I fed him."
"Did he really eat?"
"Like a starved cat."
"Hm-m-m," said Beth. "What next, I wonder?"
Patsy wondered, too, the cold shivers chasing one another up and down her
back. The boy was coming toward them, coolly puffing a cigar. He did not
seem to totter quite so much as before, but he was glad to sink into an
easy chair.
"How do you feel?" asked Beth, regarding him curiously.
"Like one of those criminals who are pampered with all the good things
of life before being led to the scaffold."
"Any pains?"
He shook his head.
"Not yet. I've asked the clerk, whenever I signal him, to send someone to
carry me to my room. If I'm not able to say good-bye to you, please
accept now my thanks for all your kindness to a stranger. You see, I'm
not sure whether I'll have a sudden seizure or the pains will come on
gradually."
"What pains?" demanded Patsy.
"I can't explain them. Don't you believe something is bound to happen?"
he inquired, nervously removing the ash from his cigar.
"To be sure. You're going to get well."
He made no reply, but sat watching Beth's nimble fingers. Patsy was too
excited to resume her embroidery.
"I wonder if you are old enough to smoke?" remarked Beth.
"I'm over twenty-one."
"Indeed! We decided you were about eighteen."
"I suppose I look younger than my age. At home, in Sangoa, I am still
regarded as a mere child. That is because I had no brothers and sisters,
and my father never could realize that I was growing up. The people
still call me--"
He paused, in an embarrassed way, till Patsy asked:
"Call you what?"
"By my old childish name."
Both the girls were distinctly disappointed. But bluff Patsy Doyle would
not be denied the satisfaction of her curiosity. Within the last hour
she had felt as if she had adopted this friendless boy, and some
information concerning him was her due.
"Your name is A. Jones?" she aid.
"Yes."
"What does the 'A' stand for?"
There! The question was out, at last. He hesitated, flushing read. Then
he replied slowly:
"It stands for one of my father's peculiarities. I think I have told you
how proud he was that we are direct descendants of John Paul Jones.
'John Paul,'" he would often say, 'has ennobled the name of Jones, so
that to be a Jones is to bear the proudest name known to mankind.' When
I was born they were undecided what to name me. 'There is no hurry about
it,' said my father; 'whatever we call him, he is a Jones.' My mother
must have been something of a humorist. She kept referring to her baby
as 'a Jones' until father caught the absurd idea of letting it go at
that, and had me christened merely 'A. Jones.'"
"How delightful?" cried Patsy, clapping her hands gleefully. "Then 'A'
doesn't stand for anything at all?"
"Oh, yes; it stands for _a_ Jones," said the boy, making a wry face. "I
think it is dreadful."
"But what did they call you, afterward? What was the childish name you
referred to?"
"Another of my mother's humorous fancies. She called me 'Ajo,' and
others quickly caught up the horrid nickname. It is merely a contraction
of A. Jones, and in Sangoa I am called nothing else."
"Ajo," repeated Beth, her sweet voice giving the title a pleasant sound.
"In Spanish it would be pronounced 'Ah-ho.'"
"But we are not Spanish in Sangoa."
"What are your people?"
"Formerly all Americans. The younger generation are, like myself I
suppose, Sangoans by birth. But there isn't a black or yellow or brown
man on our island."
"How many inhabitants has Sangoa?"
"About six hundred, all told."
There was silence for a while.
"Any pains yet?" inquired Beth.
"Not yet. But I'm feeling drowsy. With your permission I'll lie down and
take a nap. I slept very little last night."
He threw away his cigar, which he had smoked nearly to the end, and
rising without assistance, bowed and walked away.
"Will he ever waken, I wonder?" said Beth softly.
"Of course," declared Patsy. "He has crossed the Rubicon and is going to
get well. I feel it in my bones!"
"Let us hope," responded Beth, "that Ajo also feels it in his bones,
rather than in his stomach."