Two sandwiches, an apple, and a glass of water may save a man from
starvation, but they do not go far towards satisfying the reviving
appetite of a convalescent. Walking with brisk step down the road,
Callandar began to imagine the kind of meal he would order--a clear
soup, broiled steak, crisp potatoes--a few little simple things like
that! He fingered his pocketbook lovingly, glad that, for the first time
in some months, he actually wanted something that money could buy.
Now that noon was past, the intense heat of the morning was tempered by
a breeze. It was still hot and his footsteps raised little cyclones of
dust which flew along the road before him, but the oppression in the air
was gone, and walking had ceased to be a weariness. The mile which
separated him from Coombe appeared no longer endless, yet so insistent
were the demands of his inner man that when a town-going farmer hailed
him with the usual offer of a "lift," he accepted the invitation
with alacrity.
"Better," he murmured to himself, "the delights of rustic conversation
with a good meal at the end thereof than lordly solitude and
emptiness withal."
But contrary to expectation the rustic declined to converse. He was a
melancholy-looking man with a long jaw and eyes so deep-set that the
observer took them on faith, and a nose which alone would have been
sufficient to identify him. Beyond the first request to "step up," he
vouchsafed no word and, save for an inarticulate gurgle to his horse,
seemed lost in an ageless calm. His gaze was fixed upon some indefinite
portion of the horse's back and he drove leaning forward in an attitude
of complete bodily and mental relaxation. If his guest wished
conversation it was apparent that he must set it going himself.
"Very warm day!" said Callandar tentatively.
"So-so." The farmer slapped the reins over the horse's flank, jerked
them abruptly and murmured a hoarse "Giddap!" It was his method of
encouraging the onward motion of the animal.
"Is it always as warm as this hereabouts?"
"No. Sometimes we get it a little cooler 'bout Christmas."
The doctor flushed with annoyance and then laughed.
"You see," he explained, "I'm new to this part of the country. But I
always thought you had it cooler up here."
The manner of the rustic grew more genial.
"Mostly we do," he admitted; "but this here is a hot spell." Another
long pause and then he volunteered suddenly: "You can mostly tell by
Alviry. When she gets a sunstroke it's purty hot. I'm going for the
doctor now."
"Going for the doctor?" Callandar's gaze swept the peaceful figure with
incredulous amusement. "Great Scott, man! Why don't you hurry? Can't the
horse go any faster?"
"Maybe," resignedly, "but he won't."
"Make him, then! A sunstroke may be a very serious business. Your wife
may be dead before you get back."
The deep-set eyes turned to him slowly. There seemed something like a
distant sparkle in their depths.
"Don't get to worrying, stranger. It'll take more 'an a sunstroke to
polish off Alviry."
"Was she unconscious?"
"Not so as you could notice."
"But if it were a sunstroke--look here, I'll go with you myself. I am a
doctor."
"Kind of thought you might be," he responded genially. "Thinking of
taking on old Doc. Simmonds's practice?"
"I don't know. But if your wife--"
The rustic shook his head. "No. You wouldn't do for Alviry. She said to
get Doc. Parker, and a sunstroke ain't going to change her none. But if
she likes your looks she'll probably try you next time. Tumble fond of
experiments is Alviry--hi! giddap!" He slapped his horse more forcibly
with the loose reins and settled into, mournful silence.
"Going to put up at the Imperial?" he asked after a long and peaceful
pause.
"I want to put up somewhere where I can get a good meal and get it
quickly."
The mournful Jehu shook his head gloomily.
"You won't get that at the Imperial."
"Where had I better go?"
"There ain't any other place to go--not to speak of."
The doctor let fall a fiery exclamation.
"What say?"
"I said that it must be a queer town."
"I'm a little hard of hearing, now and agin. But I gather you're not a
church-going man. It's a great church-going place, is Coombe. Old Doc.
Simmonds was a Methody. We were kind of hoping the next one might be a
change. There's two churches of Presbyterians and they're tumble folk
for hanging together."
The doctor laughed. "Thanks for the tip. I'll remember. Coombe is
considered a healthy place, isn't it?"
"Danged healthy."
The commiseration in the other's tone lent to the simple question such
an obvious meaning that the doctor hardly knew whether to be amused
or annoyed.
"Heavens, man! I'm not an undertaker. I asked because I'm rather rocky
myself. That is, partly, why I'm here."
The mournful one nodded. "Good a reason as any," he assented sadly.
"By the way--er--there used to be a Dr. Coombe here, didn't there?
Didn't he live somewhere hereabouts?"
The sad one turned his meditative eyes from their focus upon the horse's
back and rested them upon the open and guileleas face by his side. Then
from deep down in his brawny throat came a sudden sound. It was
unmistakably a chuckle. Without the slightest trace of an accompanying
smile, the sound was startling.
"What's the matter?" asked the doctor irritably.
"Nothing. Only when anybody's seen Esther, they always start asking
about old Doc. Coombe. It gives them a kind of opening. Yes, that's the
old Coombe place--over there. The one with the fir trees and the big elm
by the gate."
"A pleasant house," said Callandar in a detached voice.
"So-so. The old Doc. uster putter around considerable. But they say his
widow isn't doing much to keep it up. Tumble flighty woman, so they say.
Young, you know, just about young enough to be the old Doc.'s
daughter--"
"But--"
"Oh! Esther ain't her child. Esther's ma died when she was a baby. There
is a child, though, Jane they call her, a pindling little thing. But
p'r'aps you've met Jane too?"
"I did not say--"
"No, but I thought likely if you'd met one, you'd have met the other.
Jane's nearly always hanging around Esther 'cept in school hours. Awful
fond of Esther she is. Folks say that Esther's more of a mother to Jane
than her own ma. But I dunno. Alviry says it's a shame the way Esther's
put upon; all the cares of the house when she had ought to be playing
with her dolls. Stepmother with 'bout as much sense as a fly. Old Aunt
Amy, nice sort of soul but--" he touched his head significantly and
heaved the heaviest sigh yet.
"Do you mean to say that there is an aunt who isn't quite sane?" asked
Callandar, surprised.
"_I_ don't say so. Some folks does. Alviry says she's a whole lot wiser
than some of the rest of us."
From the tone of this remark it was evident that Alviry's observation
had been intended personally. Callandar choked back a laugh.
"What say?" asked the other suspiciously.
"I said, rather hard luck for a young girl."
The mournful one nodded and relapsed into melancholy. The doctor
turned his attention to the house which a flicker of the whip had
pointed out. It was long and low, with wide verandas and a somewhat
neglected-looking lawn. At one side an avenue of lilacs curved, and on
the other stood a stiff line of fir trees. The front of the house was
well shaded by maples and near the gate stood a giant elm-tree, around
the trunk of which ran a circular seat. It all looked cool, green and
inviting. As the old horse walked sedately past, a woman's figure came
out of one of the long windows and flung itself lightly, yet, even at
that distance, with a certain suggestion of impatience, into one of the
veranda chairs.
"That'll be Mrs. Coombe now," volunteered his informant. "Tumble saucy
way she has of flinging herself around--jes' like a young girl! Mebby
you can see what sort of dress she's got on. Alviry'll be int'rested
to know."
"It's too far off," said Callandar, amused. "All I can see is that the
lady is wearing something white."
"Went out of weeds right on the dot, she did! It's not much over a year
since the old Doc. died. Esther's still wearing some of her black, but
jes' to wear them out, not as symbols. Mrs. Coombe's got a whole new
outfit, Alviry says. Turrible extravagant! Folks says it takes Esther
all her time paying for them with her school money. But I dunno.
What say?"
"I didn't say anything. But, since you ask, do you think all this is any
of my business?"
"Well, since you ask, it ain't. 'Tisn't my business either; but it kind
of passes the time. Giddap!"
Perhaps the old horse knew he was getting near the end of his journey
for, contrary to expectation, he did "giddap" with a jerk which nearly
unseated the doctor and caused a flicker of mild surprise to flit across
the sad one's face.
"Turrible fast horse, this," he confided, "all you got to do is to get
him going."
"Don't let me take you out of your way. If you'll tell me the
direction--"
"Sit still, stranger. I'm going right past the Imperial. Hardly any
place in Coombe you can go without going past the Imperial. It's what
you call a kind of newclus."
As he spoke, the horse, now going at a fairly respectable rate, turned
into the main street of the town; a main street, thriftily prosperous
but now somewhat a-doze in the sun. Half-way down, the intelligent
animal stopped with another jerk for which the doctor was equally
ill-prepared. Before them stood a modest red brick building, three
stories in height, with a narrow veranda running across the lowest story
just one step up from the pavement. On the veranda were green chairs and
in the chairs reclined such portion of the male Coombers as could do so
without fear and without reproach. Along the top of the veranda was a
large sign displaying the words, "HOTEL IMPERIAL."
Callandar alighted nimbly from the democrat, that being the name of the
light spring wagon in which he had travelled, and shook his good
Samaritan by the hand. "Thank you very much," he said, "and I sincerely
hope that the sunstroke will not have terminated fatally by the time you
reach home."
The deep-set eyes turned to him slowly and again he fancied a twinkle in
their mournfulness. "If it does," said the sad one tranquilly, "it will
be the first time it ever has--giddap!"
As no one came forth to take his knapsack, Callandar slung it over his
shoulder and entered the hotel. The parting remark of his conductor had
left a smile upon his lips, which smile still lingered as he asked the
sleepy-looking clerk for a room, and intimated that he would like lunch
immediately.
"Dining room closed," said that individual shortly.
"What do you mean?"
"Dining room closes at two; supper at six."
"Do you mean to say that you serve nothing between the hours of two and
six?"
"Serve you a drink, if you like," with an understanding grin at his
questioner's dusty knapsack.
Forgetting that he had become a Presbyterian, the doctor made a few
remarks, and from his manner of making them the clerk awoke to the fact
that knapsacks do not a hobo make nor dusty coats a tramp. Now in Canada
no one is the superior of any one else, but that did not make a bit of
difference in the startling change of demeanour which overtook the
clerk. He straightened up. He removed his toothpick. He arranged the
register in his best manner and chose another nib for his pen. When
Callandar had registered, the clerk was very sorry indeed that the hotel
arrangements were rather arbitrary in the matter of meal hours. He was
afraid that the kitchen fires were down and everything cold. Still if
the gentleman would go to his room, he would see what could be done--
The gentleman went to his room; but in no enviable frame of mind. So
wretched was his plight that he was not above valuing the covert
sympathy of the small bell-boy who preceded him up the oilclothed
stairs. He was a very round boy: round legs, round cheeks, round head
and eyes so round that they must have been special eyes made on purpose.
There was also a haunting resemblance to some other boy! Callandar
taxed his memory, and there stole into it a vision of a pool with
willows. He chuckled.
"Boy," he said, "have you a little brother who is very fond of going to
school?"
"Nope," said the boy. (It seemed to be a family word.) "I've got a
brother, but he don't sound like that."
"You ought to be in school yourself, boy. What's your name?"
"Zerubbabel Burk."
"Is that all?"
"Yep. Bubble for short."
"Have you ever known what it is to be hungry?"
"Three times a day, before meals!"
"Well, I'm starving. Do you belong to the Boy Scouts?"
"Betyerlife."
"Well, look here. I am an army in distress. Commissariat cut off,
extinction imminent! Now you go and bring in the provisions. And, as we
believe in honourable warfare, pay for everything you get, but take no
refusals--see?" He pressed a bill into the boy's ready hand and watched
the light of understanding leap into the round eyes with pleasurable
anticipation.
"I get you, Mister! Here's your room, number fourteen."
The boy disappeared while still the key with its long tin label was
jingling in the lock. The doctor opened the door of room number fourteen
and went in.
Rooms, we contend, like people, should be considered in relation to that
state in which it has pleased Providence to place them. To consider
number fourteen in any environment save its own would be manifestly
unfair since, in relation to all the other rooms at the Imperial,
number fourteen was a good room, perhaps the very best. A description
tempts us, but perhaps its best description is to be found in its effect
upon Dr. Callandar. That effect was an immediate determination to depart
by the next train, provided the next train did not leave before he had
had something to eat.
He was aroused from gloomy musings by a discreet tap announcing the
return of the scouting party. The scouting party was piled with parcels
up to its round eyes and from the parcels issued an odour so delicious
that the doctor's depression vanished.
"Good hunting, eh?"
"Prime, sir. 'Tisn't store stuff, either! As soon as I see that look in
your eye I remembered 'bout the tea-fight over at Knox's Church last
night and how they'd be sure to be selling off what's left, for the
benefit of the heathen." The boy gave the roundest wink Callandar had
ever seen and deposited his parcels upon the bed. "They always have
'bout forty times as much's they can use. Course I didn't get you any
_broken_ vittles," he added, noticing the alarm upon the doctor's face.
"It's all as good as the best. Wait till you see!"
He began to clear the wash-stand in a businesslike manner, talking all
the time. "This here towel will do for a cloth. It's bran' clean--cross
my heart! I borrowed a dish or two offen the church. They know me....
We'll put the chicken in the middle and the ham along at this end and
the pie over there where it can't slip off--"
"I don't like pie, boy."
"I do. Pie's good for you. We'll put the beet salad by the chicken and
the cabbage salad by the ham and the chow-chow betwixt 'em. Then the
choc'late cake can go by the pie--"
"Boy, I don't like chocolate cake."
"Honest? Ah, you're kiddin' me! Really? Choc'late cake's awful good for
you. I love chocolate cake. This here cake was made by Esther Coombe's
Aunt Amy--it's a sure winner! Say, Mister, what do you like anyway?"
"Ever so many more things than I did yesterday. By Jove, that chicken
looks good!"
"Yep. That's Mrs. Hallard's chicken. I thought you'd want the best. She
ris' it herself. And made the stuffin' too."
"Did she 'ris' the ham also?"
"Nope. It's Miss Taylor's ham. Home cured. The minister thinks a whole
lot of Miss Taylor's curin'. Ma thinks that if Miss Taylor wasn't quite
so hombly, minister might ask her jest on account of the ham. You try
it--wait a jiffy till I sneak some knives!"
Callandar looked at the decorated wash-stand and felt better. He had
forgotten all about the room, and when the knives came, in even less
than the promised jiffy, he forgot everything but the varied excellences
of the food before him. The chicken was a chicken such as one dreams of.
The salads were delicious, the homemade bread and butter fresh and
sweet; the ham might well cause feelings of a tender nature towards its
curer! The chocolate cake? He thought he might try a small piece and,
having tried, was willing to make the attempt on a larger scale. The boy
was a most efficient waiter, discerning one's desires before they were
expressed. But when they got to the pie, the doctor drew up another
chair at the pie side of the table and waved the waiter into it.
There was no false modesty about the boy; neither did he hold malice. If
he had felt slightly aggrieved at not having been invited earlier, he
forgot it after the first mouthful and for a time there was no further
conversation in number fourteen. The doctor had temporarily discarded
his theory that it is better to rise from the table feeling slightly
hungry. The boy had never had so foolish a theory to discard. The
chicken, the ham, the pie, disappeared as if conjured away. The boy
grew rounder.
"Boy," said the doctor at last, "hadn't you better stop? You are
'swelling wisibly afore my werry eyes!'"
The boy shook his head, but presently he began to have intervals when he
was able to speak.
"Better plant all you can," he advised. "Ma says the grub here would
kill a cat. I eat at home. Ma wouldn't risk my stomach here.
It's fierce."
"But I'll have to eat, boy. Isn't there another hotel?"
"Yep; two. But you couldn't go to them. This here's the only decent one.
Gave you a nice room anyway." He looked around admiringly. "Going to
stay long?"
"No--that is, yes--I don't know! How can I stay if I can't eat?"
The boy picked his round white teeth thoughtfully with a pin.
"You might get board somewheres."
This was a new idea.
"Why--so I might! Does Mrs. Hallard who raises chickens or Miss
What's-her-name who cures ham, keep boarders?"
"Nope. But they're not the only oysters in the soup--There's the bell!
They never give a man a minute's peace. Say, if you don't really like
that pie, don't waste it--see? Tell you about boarding-houses later."
Callandar had to clear the table himself. This he did by the simple
expedient of putting everything on top of everything else. But he did
not waste anything, a precaution whose value he realised that night upon
returning from the dining room where he had spent some time in looking
at that repast known to the Imperial as supper. Bubble, the bell boy,
found him with his mind made up.
"Boy," he said, "you have saved my life. But I fear I can sojourn no
longer in your delightful town. Find me the first train out in the
morning.".
The boy's face fell.
"Ain't you going to stay? Why, it's all over town that you're the new
doctor come to take old Doc. Simmonds's practice. Mournful Mark, that
you drove up with, told it. He said he shouldn't wonder if you're real
clever. Says he suspects you're an old friend of Doc. Coombe's
folks--went to college with the doctor, mebby. Says that likely Alviry
will have you next time she gets a stroke."
"Tempting as the prospect is, boy, I fear ..."
"Oh, dang it! There's the bell again."
He darted out, bumped down the sounding stairs and, while the doctor was
still considering the words of his ultimatum, appeared again at the
door, this time decorously on duty.
"A call for you, sir," said Bubble primly.
"A--what?"
"A call, sir. Mrs. Sykes wants to know if the new doctor will call
'round first thing in the morning to see Mrs. Sykes's Ann. She dunno,
but she thinks it's smallpox."
"Quit your fooling, boy."
"Cross my heart, doctor!"
"Smallpox?"
"Oh!" cheerfully, "I don't cross my heart to that. Mrs. Sykes always
thinks things is smallpox. Ann's had smallpox several times now. But the
rest is on the level. What message, sir?"
Callandar hesitated. (And while he hesitated the Fateful Sisters
manipulated a great many threads very swiftly.) "What train ..." he
began. (The Fateful Sisters slipped a bobbin through and tied a cunning
knot.) Without knowing why, Callandar decided to stay. He laughed.
Bubble stood eagerly expectant.
"Tell Mrs. Sykes I'll come, and ..." but Bubble did not wait for the
end of the message.