"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the ant.i.toxin.

It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way." Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second injection. "There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here within an hour." Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's name?"

"I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I think."

"All right. Now, go and get the teamster."

The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, no chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!" he muttered, as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get his breath.

After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear.

Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay.

"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The eyes gave a.s.sent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had followed every movement expressed satisfaction.

"Do you want me to read it?"

It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing grat.i.tude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's fort.i.tude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble.

The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face.

"Something else in your pocket?"

The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came to a large worn pocketbook.

"This?"

With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to question.

"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes."

The eyes remained wide open. "No? You want me to do something for you?

To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall write to your mother and send all your things and tell them about you." A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word "Thank."

"Thank who? The teamster?"

The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers.

"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the doctor. "Anything else?"

The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, "Mother--home," and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling.

"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And once more a glad smile lit up the distorted face.

For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through the thin part.i.tion, came the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken song. The doctor cursed them all below his breath and turned toward the door. A spasm of coughing brought him back to his patient's side. After the spasm had pa.s.sed the sick man lay still, his eyes closed, and his breath becoming shorter every moment. Once again the eyes made their appeal, and the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening intently, he heard the word, "Pray." The doctor's pale face flushed quickly and as quickly paled again. He shook his head, saying, "I'm no good at that." Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, and again the doctor caught the words, "Jesus, tender--." It had been the doctor's child prayer, too. But for years no prayer had pa.s.sed his lips.

He could not bring himself to do it. It would be sheer mockery. But the eyes were fixed upon his face beseeching, waiting for him to begin.

"All right," said the doctor through his set teeth, "I'll do it."

And above the ribald sounds that broke in from below on the solemn silence, the doctor's voice, low but very clear, rose in the verses of that ancient child's prayer, "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." At the third verse,

"Let my sins be all forgiven, Bless the friends I love so well, Take me when I die to heaven, Happy there with Thee to dwell."

there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh as of great content, and then all was still. Ere the prayer had been uttered the answer had come, "Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor Scotty! Out from the sickness and the pain, from the wretchedness and the sin, he had been taken to the place where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more out forever.

Silently the doctor composed the limbs, his eyes dim with unusual tears.

As he was thus busied he heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply about, he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, both wiping their eyes and struggling with their sobs.

"Confound you, Shorty!" burst forth the doctor wrathfully, "what in the mischief are you doing there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead man before?" The doctor was clearly in a rage. During the weeks Shorty had known him in camp he had never seen him show anything but a perfectly cold and self-composed face. "Is this the teamster?" continued the doctor. "Come in here. You see that man? Someone has murdered him.

Who sent him down here through this storm? How long had he been ill?

Have you a doctor up there? Are there any more sick? Why don't you speak up? What's your name?" In an angry flood the questions poured forth upon the hapless Tommy, who stood speechless. "Why don't you speak?" said the doctor again.

Recovering himself, Tommy began with the question which seemed to require least thought to answer. "Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An'

sure it's not me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman the man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw fer the last twinty miles, an' up an' down the hills like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker."

"Have you no doctor up there?"

"Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer the drunken baste that he is, wallowin' 'round like Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the pig."

"Are there any more sick?"

"Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half a dozen worse than poor Scotty there, G.o.d rest his sowl!"

The doctor thought a minute, then turning to Shorty he said, speaking rapidly, "Go and bring to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say not a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he said, turning to Tommy, "can you start back in an hour?"

"I can that same, if I must."

"You know the road. We'll get another team and start within an hour. Get something to eat."

In a short time both the foreman and the saloon-keeper were in the room.

"This man," said the doctor, "is dead. Diphtheria. There is no fear, Swipey. Shut that door. But you must have him buried at once, and you will both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I shall fumigate this room. All this clothing must be burned and there will be no further danger. You will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to No. 2 to-night."

"To-night, doctor!" cried the foreman. "It's blowing a regular blizzard.

Can't you wait till morning?"

"There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. "The chances are it's diphtheria."

In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with the best team the camp possessed.

"Have you had something to eat, Tommy?" inquired the doctor, stepping out from the saloon.

"That's what I have," replied Tommy.

"All right, then. Give me the lines. You can have a sleep."

"Not if I know it, begob!" said Tommy. "I'll stay wid yez. It's mesilf that knows a man whin I see him."

And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, the doctor rejoicing to find in the call to a fight with death that excitement without which it seemed he could not live.