TOM TURNS DOCTOR
The door opened almost noiselessly.
"Shut that door," cried Tom, angrily, without looking around.
"Whoever you are, do you know that we have a sick man here"
"Well, the men chased me out of one shack, and wouldn't let me
in the other, and I don't want to go near the cook," complained
a whining young voice.
It was Alf Drew who uttered the words.
"Shut the door," Tom repeated.
"May I stay here?" asked Alf, after obeying.
"I suppose so, though we have about enough trouble here already.
Why did the men chase you out of their shack?"
"They said they couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes," Drew
replied.
"I don't wonder at that," muttered Tom.
"They were all smoking. I don't see why I couldn't smoke, too,"
Alf whined.
"That's just the point," Tom returned. "The men were smoking.
Now, as I've told you before, the use of cigarettes isn't smoking
at all. You annoyed men who were minding their own business."
"They're a mean lot," complained young Drew. Being cold he went
over to the fire to warm himself. Then he drew a cigarette from
one of his pockets, and struck a match. Tom Reade, slipping up
behind the youngster, deftly took the cigarette away from him,
tossing it into the fire.
"You'll have to quit that," Tom ordered sternly. "If I catch
you trying to light a cigarette then out you go. We have a man
here sick with lung trouble and with a high fever, and we don't
propose to have any cigarette smoke around here."
"What am I going to do, then?" asked Alf, after a minute or so
spent in a kind of trance.
"Do anything you please, as long as you keep quiet and don't light
any cigarettes," Tom suggested, rummaging in the cupboard for
a medicine chest that he knew was there.
"But I'll go to pieces, if I can't smoke a cigarette or two," whined
the boy.
Tom had the medicine chest in his lap by this time. His hand
touched a bottle of pellets labeled "quassia."
"Here, chew on one of these, and you won't need your cigarette,"
Tom suggested, passing over a pellet.
Alf mutely took the pellet, crushing it with his teeth.
"Ugh!" he uttered disgustedly.
"Don't spit it out," urged Tom. "It's the best thing possible to
take the place of a cigarette. Keep it in your mouth until it is
all dissolved."
Alf made a wry face, but knew he must obey Tom. So he stuck to
the pellet until the last of it had dissolved on his tongue. The
pellet was gone, but the taste wasn't.
"Ugh!" grunted the youngster.
"You said that before," urged Tom. "Try to be original. Want
another pellet?"
"No; I don't. I wouldn't touch one again!"
"Don't happen to want a cigarette, either, do you?"
"I don't want anything, now, but just to get that taste out of
my mouth," Alf uttered.
"All right; go over in the corner and keep quiet. Jim, do you
know anything about the use of the medicines in this chest?"
"Not a blessed thing," Ferrers replied regretfully. "I never
took as much as a pinhead of medicine in my life."
"But Harry must have something," Tom insisted. "We can't let
him lie there and die."
It was one of those ready-made medicine chests that are sold to
campers and others who must live at a considerable distance from
medical aid. Finding a small book of instructions in the chest,
Tom moved over under the strong light and settled himself to read
thoughtfully.
Harry tossed restlessly, unmindful of what was going on around
him. His heavy, rapid breathing filled the place. Once in a
while he moaned slightly, every sound of this kind going through
Tom like a knife.
A particularly deep moan caused Tom to shiver and close the book.
He went over and felt Harry's hot, drier skin.
"Jim," he directed, "I'm sure that, somehow, we should force the
perspiration through his dry, parched skin. Take some of the
blankets out of my bunk and spread them over Harry."
"It'll make his fever worse, won't it?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Tom admitted helplessly. "We'd better
try it for a while, anyway."
Then Tom stood looking down at the flushed face of his chum, muttering
below his breath:
"Harry, old fellow, I wish your mother were here. She'd know
just what to do. And for your mother's sake, as well as my own,
I've just got to blunder into something that will cure you."
Heaving a sigh, Tom went back under the lamp to read with blurted
eyes.
At last he struck a paragraph that he thought bore on the case in
hand. He read eagerly, praying for light.
"I've got it, at last," he announced, moving over to the bunk, beside
which Ferrers stood.
"Got what?" asked Jim.
"I believe I'm on the track of the right stuff to give poor old Harry."
"What's the name of the stuff you're going to give harry"
"There are three medicines mentioned here," replied Reade, holding
up the book. "They're all to be given."
"_Three_ medicines!" gasped Jim. "By the great Custer three are
enough to kill a horse!"
"I'm going to try 'em," sighed Tom stolidly. "The poor fellow will
die if nothing is done for him."
"Wouldn't it be better," suggested Ferrers, hopelessly, "to try
one medicine on the lad and then wait ten minutes. Then, if that
doesn't work, try one of the others on him! If that doesn't work
then you know that the third kind of stuff is the right sort of
bracer."
Despite his great anxiety, Reade could not suppress the smile that
Jim's advice brought out. It was plain that Ferrers, good fellow
as he was, would be of no use on the medical end of the fight that
must be waged.
Tom searched the chest and found the medicines. Then he looked
up the doses and started to administer the remedies as directed.
Even over the steadily increasing gale the notes of the supper
horn reached them faintly.
"It's too tough weather to expect the cook to bring the stuff
over here tonight," said Jim. "So, if you can spare me, I'll
go and eat with the boys. Then I'll bring your chuck over to
you."
Alf came out of his corner, pulling on the ragged overcoat that
he had picked up in a trade with an undersized man down at the
Bright Hope Mine.
Left alone, Tom drew a stool up beside the bunk, and sat studying
his chum's face.
Twenty minutes later Hazelton opened his eyes.
"You're feeling better, now, aren't you?" asked Tom hopefully.
"I---I guess so," Harry muttered faintly.
"Where does it hurt you most, chum?"
"In---in my chest."
"Right lung!"
"Yes."
"Is the pain severe, Harry?"
"It's about all I can---can stand---old fellow."
"Poor chap. Don't try to talk, now. We're taking good care of
you, and we'll keep on the job day and night. You've had some
medicine, though you didn't know it. Now, try to sleep, if you
can."
But Hazelton couldn't sleep. He tossed restlessly, his face aflame
with fever.
Jim Ferrers came back with the supper, but Reade could eat very
little of it. Alf Drew did not return. He had made his peace with
the workmen.
Through the night Harry grew steadily worse. When daylight came
in, with the blizzard still raging, the young engineer was delirious.