The preceding events bring us up to September 11, shortly before Lister
opened for the college year 1913-14. All of Trench’s family of students
had stood by him through the summer except the one Yankee, who was
working in a boys’ camp, and who had now returned.
On September 11, the Persian student, Ameen, went over to Lister to carry
a message to the dean. He found the “old man” conversing with a new
student—apparently some sort of oriental. The dean’s eye brightened at
once.
“I was on the point of telephoning you. This is Mr. Saadi Sereef of
Bokhara, and I want to place him in the care of Mr. Ameen of Isfahan.”
“You could do me no greater favour, doctor. Salaam alêkom, Mr. Sereef.”
The stranger arose and bowed gravely. “Wa-alêkom salaam, Mr. Ameen.”
“So that is the way orientals salute each other,” smiled the dean.
“Salaam means peace, does it not?”
“Yes, doctor,” said the new student. “It is first principle of my
religion to say peace and mean war.”
The dean turned to Ameen. “Mr. Sereef comes to us from Vienna, with
credentials which cover four years above the Matura examination. He
enters with us as a junior, though I suspect that he knows more surgery
than most of you. He would naturally report to Dr. Trench. He has been
in Chicago a month, but if there is a possibility of changing his
boarding-place—well, I leave that to you.”
Ameen delivered his message, and the two orientals bowed themselves out.
“Who is Dr. Trench?”
“I live with Dr. Trench,” said Ameen, his dark eyes glowing like pansies,
“and the dean meant that perhaps we could find room for you in the
Caravansery. That is what I call his house. It is in Halsted Street.”
Saadi Sereef nodded. “I know Halsted Street. I went to Hull-House to find
teacher to teach me idioms. I know all American slang.”
Ameen laughed. “In the Caravansery we have a sophomore who will keep you
in practice. His name is Deel’nd, spelled Deland, and he comes from Salem
in Massachusetts.”
“Where you learn such beautiful English, Mirza Ameen?”
“Do you think I speak well? I try very hard. I began in the Protestant
College in Beirut, and I have done much translating.”
“I will never learn beautiful English. I always say v when I should say
double-you.”—This piece of self-criticism was entirely accurate. Saadi
never captured a w.
“I shall never speak good English,” he repeated, “but you and I can talk
Persian.”
“As you wish, but we stick to English at the Caravansery. It is our only
safety, because there are Wu and Chatterjee and Becker.”
“Chinese, Bengali, German,” commented Saadi without enthusiasm.
“Becker is a Russian.”
“Becker should not change good Slav name. I do not like Germans, and
Germans do not like me. Well, you offer me room in Caravansery?”
“Yes, Mr. Sereef, subject to the doctor’s approval. It is the room Dr.
Jaffer had for two years. Jaffer likes the Germans as much as you dislike
them.”
“Dr. Jaffer is from Stamboul?”
“No, from northern India. He is there now, as interne in a private
hospital. He is coming back next June as interne at Lister.”
Saadi Sereef counted the names over on his fingers: “Ameen, Wu,
Chatterjee, Becker, Deel’nd, and Jaffer. It is not Caravansery. It is
Menagerie.”
Ameen laughed again, and wondered that his new friend could say such
things without the shadow of a smile. But when Saadi Sereef presently put
his hand on the back of his neck and pressed it, while lines deepened
between his eyes, Ameen understood.
“You are in pain, Mr. Sereef. I think you must surely join us in Halsted
Street, and let Dr. Trench take care of you. His specialty is pediatrics,
but that will make no difference.”
“It will be very proper,” said the sufferer, drawing in his breath
sharply. “I feel like little child in Chicago. I am what you say
wandering kid to-night.”
“Shall we go to your lodgings and have your trunk sent over?”
“Pretty quick, yes. First I will hear about Dr. Trench. Is he old man?”
“No. Let me get a book and show you.”
Ameen ran up to the library, returned with a copy of “Who’s Who in
Medicine,” and read aloud:
“Trench, Isham, pediatrician. Born Chicago, April 23, 1882. Son Darius
and Eleanor (Isham) T. Matura, Vienna, 1901. M.D. Vienna, 1907.
Resident physician, Lister Hospital, 1908. Instructor in Pediatrics,
Lister College, 1909-1910. Asst. Prof. ibid. 1911-1912. Professor since
1912. Adviser foreign students. Member Am. Pediatric Soc., Chicago
Pediatric Soc., Chicago Med. Soc. Inventor Trench Kymograph. Translator
Czerny-Keller: Ernährungsstörungen und Ernährungstherapie des Kindes.
Contributor _Amer. Jour. Diseases of Children_, _Archiv für Pediatrik_,
etc. Address, Lister Medical College, Chicago.”
“What do you think of that, Mr. Saadi Sereef?”
“I think he is wonder, and then some,” responded Saadi solemnly. “What
for genius like that has he menagerie of wandering kids to-night?”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Sereef, he does not see much of us. Wu and
Chatterjee cook for him, but even they do not know him well. But he
unites us in the spirit of science.”
Saadi glanced at him suspiciously. “Perhaps he unites you and perhaps he
unites you not! I have been in Eshkabad, and I have seen new temple where
what you say renegade Moslems and Jews and Christians are united. They
are called Bahais, and they think themselves _seikeli rui zemin_—the hub
of the universe. Are you Bahai?”
Ameen smiled more kindly than ever. “There are several sects of Bahais,
and I am a little afraid of names.”
“Why you are afraid to wear dog-collar with name of Bahai Pope?”
“Well,” laughed the Persian, “after a life of struggling to wear it, I
might awake in paradise and find that God is neither a Muhammadan, nor a
Jew, nor a Christian—nor even a Bahai.”
“Paradise!” ejaculated Saadi. “I hate and despise religion. I am bad man,
Mirza Ameen. I am liar and thief and infidel, and what will you do with
me?”
Ameen put a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “I will love you like a
brother, and I will call you Saadi.”
The grey eyes looked into the pansy eyes. “Well, Ameen, I do not think
you are liar, but I am sure you are damn fool. I will join menagerie, and
make all troubles for all animals in it.”