THE DOCTOR’S ORDERS
The Cowells were new to Bridgeboro and in the emergency had called
Doctor Brent at random. He was brisk and efficient, seeming not
particularly interested in the tragedy of the rubber ball nor the
viewpoint of the juvenile audience.
His prompt attention to the patient imposed a silence which made the
moments of waiting seem portentous. Out of this ominous silence would
come what dreadful pronouncement? He felt the boy’s pulse, he lifted him
and listened at his back, he applied his stethoscope, which harmless
instrument has struck terror to more than one fond parent. He said,
“Huh.”
“I think he must have been very nervous, doctor,” Mrs. Cowell ventured.
“No, it’s his heart,” said the doctor crisply.
Mrs. Cowell sighed, “It’s serious then?”
“No, not necessarily. He was running too hard. Has he ever been taken
like this before?”
“No, never. He always ran freely.”
“Hmph.”
“No history of heart weakness at all, huh? Father living?”
“He died fourteen years ago but it wasn’t heart trouble.” Mrs. Cowell
seemed glad of the chance to talk. “We lost a little son—it wasn’t—there
was nothing the matter with him—he was stolen—kidnapped. Mr. Cowell
refused a demand for ransom because the authorities thought they could
apprehend the criminals. We never saw our little son again. It was
remorse that he had refused to pay ransom that preyed upon my husband’s
mind and broke his health down. That is the little boy’s photograph on
the piano.”
The doctor glanced at it respectfully, then, his eye catching Arden, he
said pleasantly, “You look healthy enough.”
“She’s very highly strung, doctor,” said Mrs. Cowell.
“Well,” said the doctor, in a manner of getting down to business,
“sometimes we discover a condition that may have existed for a long
time. We ought to be glad of the occasion which brings such a thing to
light. Now we know what to do—or what not to do. He hasn’t been sick
lately? Diphtheria or——”
“Yes, he had diphtheria,” said Mrs. Cowell surprised; “he hasn’t been
well a month.”
“Ah,” said the doctor with almost a relish in his voice. “That’s what
causes the mischief; he’ll be all right. It isn’t a chronic weakness.
Diphtheria is apt to leave the heart in bad shape—it passes. Didn’t they
tell you about that? That’s the treacherous character of diphtheria; you
get well, then some day after a week or two you fall down. It’s an after
effect that has to work off.”
“It isn’t serious then, doctor?” Wilfred’s mother asked anxiously.
“Not unless he makes it so. He must favor himself for a while.”
“How long?” the boy asked wistfully.
“Well, to be on the safe side I should say a month.”
“A month from to-day?” the wistful voice asked.
“You mustn’t pin the doctor down, dearie,” said Mrs. Cowell; “he means a
month or two—or maybe six months.”
“No, I don’t mean that,” the doctor laughed. Then, evidently sizing the
young patient up, he added, “We’ll make it an even month; this is the
twenty-fifth of June. That will be playing safe. Think you can take it
easy for a month?”
“I can if I have to,” said Wilfred.
“That’s the way to talk,” Doctor Brent encouraged.
“He can read nice books,” said Mrs. Cowell.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I’ll tell you what he mustn’t do, then you can
tell him what he can do.” He addressed himself to the mother but it was
evident that he was speaking _at_ the boy. “He mustn’t go swimming or
rowing. He ought not to run much. He ought to avoid all strenuous
physical exertion.”
“You hear what the doctor says,” the fond mother warned.
“Couldn’t I go scout pace?” came the wistful query. “That’s six paces
walking and six paces running?”
“Better do them all walking,” said the doctor.
“Then I can’t go to camp and be a scout?” the boy asked pitifully.
“Not this year,” said his mother gently; “because scouting means
swimming and running and diving and climbing to catch birds——”
“Oh, they don’t catch birds, mother,” said Arden.
“They catch storks,” said Mrs. Cowell.
“You’re thinking of stalking,” laughed Tom.
“Gee, I want to go up there,” Wilfred pleaded. “If I say I won’t do
those things——”
“It would be so hard for him to keep his promise at a place like that,”
said Mrs. Cowell.
“Scouts are supposed to do things that are hard,” said Tom.
“Yes—what do you call them—stunts and things like that?” Mrs. Cowell
persisted.
“Sure,” said Tom; “keeping a promise might be a stunt.”
“Oh, I don’t think it would be wise, Mr. Slade; I’m sure the doctor
would say so.”
But the doctor did not say so. He glanced at the young fellow in khaki
negligee who had sat in respectful silence during the examination and
the talk. They all looked at him now, Mrs. Cowell in a way of rueful
objection to whatever he might yet intend to say.
“Of course, if the doctor says he can’t go, that settles it,” said Tom.
“But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about scouting. The main
thing about scouting, the way we have it doped out, is to be loyal to
your folks and keep your promises and all that. I thought Billy was
going up there with me to beat every last scout in the place swimming
and rowing and tracking—and all that stuff. I had him picked for a
winner. Now it seems he has to beat them all doing something else. He
has to keep his promise when you’re not watching him. It seems if he
goes up there he’ll just have to flop around and maybe stalk a little
and sit around the camp-fire and take it easy and lay off on the
strenuous stuff. All right, whatever he undertakes to do, I back him up.
I’ve got him picked for a winner. I say he can do _anything_, no matter
how hard it is.
“The scouts have got twelve laws”—Tom counted them off on his fingers
identifying them briefly—“_trustworthy_, _loyal_, _helpful_, _friendly_,
_courteous_, _kind_, _obedient_ (get that), _cheerful_, _thrifty_,
_brave_, _clean_, _reverent_. There’s nothing in any one of them about
swimming and jumping or climbing. You can’t run when you stalk because
if you run you’re not stalking. Billy’s a new chap in this town and I
intended to take him up to Temple Camp and watch all the different
troops scramble for him. Well, he’s got to lay off and take it easy; I
say he can do that, too.”
“You got a doctor up there?” Doctor Brent asked.
“You bet, he’s a mighty fine chap, too.”
Doctor Brent paused, cogitating. “I don’t see any reason why he couldn’t
go up there,” he said finally. “You’d give your word——”
“He’ll give _his_ word, that’s better,” said Tom.
“Probably it will do him good,” said the doctor.
“I don’t want anybody up there to know I have heart trouble,” said
Wilfred. “I don’t want them to think I’m a sick feller.”
“You’re not _sick_,” said his mother.
“Well, anyway, I don’t want them to know,” Wilfred persisted petulantly.
“Well, they don’t have to know,” said Tom. “I’ll get you started on some
of the easy-going stuff—stalking’s about the best thing—and signaling
maybe—and pretty soon they’ll all be eating out of your hand. You leave
it to me.”
“Well then,” said the doctor, “I think that would be about the best
thing for him. And as long as he’s going away and going to make a
definite promise before he goes, we might as well make it hard and
fast—definite. That’s the best way when dealing with a boy, isn’t it,
Mrs. Cowell? Suppose we say one month. If he keeps thinking all the time
about doing things he’s promised not to do, the country won’t do him
much good. So we’ll say he’s to keep from running and swimming and
diving and climbing and all such things for a month, and not even to
think about them. Then on the first of August he’s to go and ask that
doctor up there whether he can—maybe swim a little and so forth.
Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wilfred.
“And do just exactly what he says.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s there most of the time,” said Tom. “Sometimes he’s fussing with
his boat over at Catskill.”
“Well, wherever he is,” said Doctor Brent, winking aside at Tom, “you go
to him on the first of August and tell him I said for him to let you
know if it’s all right for you to liven up a little. Go to him before
that if you don’t feel good.”
“I won’t because I don’t want any one to know I’m going to a doctor,”
said Wilfred.
“Leave it to me,” said Tom reassuringly.
“May we come up and see him?” Arden asked.
“You tell ’em you may,” said Tom.
As Arden opened the street door for the doctor to pass out, the clang
and clatter of the little Wentworth girl’s ramshackle wagon (it was her
brother’s, to be exact) could be heard offending the summer stillness of
that peaceful, suburban street. She renounced her fugitive ball long
enough to pause in her eternal pursuit and shout an inquiry about her
stricken hero.
“Ain’t he got to go to school no more?” she called.
It made very little difference, for school would be closing in a day or
two anyway and the little Wentworth girl’s mad career of solitary glory
would be at an end. Her brother, released from the thraldom of the
classroom, would reclaim his abused vehicle. And the hero who was to
make such bitter sacrifices on account of his gallantry would be off for
his dubious holiday at Temple Camp.