THE YOUNG DOCTOR
Barney’s jaw ran along the side
of his face, ending abruptly in a square-cut chin,
the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge and
bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested
the bed rock of character, abiding, firm, indomitable.
Having seen the goal at which he would arrive, there
remained only to find the path and press it. He
would be a doctor. The question was, how?
His first step was to consult the only authority available,
old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview,
for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself,
with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested.
The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly,
as if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance.
The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half
an hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his
Highland pride when the boy refused it.
“What do I want with money?”
cried the doctor. He had lost his only son three
years before. “There’s only my wife.
And she’ll have plenty. Money! Dirt,
fit to walk on, to make a path with, that’s all!
Had my boy lived, God knows I’d have made him
a surgeon. But ” Here the doctor
snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with
his nose. “Confound these foggy nights!
I’ll put you through.”
“I’ll pay my way,”
said Barney almost sullenly, “or I’ll stay
at home.”
“What are you doing here, then?” he roared
at the boy.
“I came to find out how to start. Must
a man go to college?”
“No,” shouted the doctor
again; “he can be a confounded fool and work
up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the
examinations till the last year, when he must attend
college.”
“I could do that,” said Barney, closing
his jaws.
The doctor looked at his face.
The shut jaws looked more than ever like a ledge of
granite and the chin like a cliff. “You
can, eh? Hanged if I don’t believe you!
And I’ll help you. I’d like to, if
you would let me.” The voice ended in a
wistful tone. The boy was touched.
“Oh, you can!” he cried
impulsively, “and I’ll be awfully thankful.
You can tell me what books to get and sometimes explain,
perhaps, if you have time.” His face went
suddenly crimson. He was conscious of asking a
favour.
The old doctor sat down, rejoicing
greatly in him, and for the first time treated him
as an equal. He explained in detail the course
of study, making much of the difficulties in the way.
When he had done he waved his hand toward his library.
“Now, there are my books,”
he cried; “use them and ask me what you will.
It will brush me up. And I’ll take you to
see my cases and, by God’s help, we’ll
make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! You’ve
got the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon!
That’s the only thing worth while. The
physician can’t see further below the skin than
anyone else. He guesses and experiments, treats
symptoms, trys one drug then another, guessing and
experimenting all along the line. But the knife,
boy!” Here the doctor rose and began to pace
the floor. “There’s no guess in the
knife point! The knife lays bare the evil, fights,
eradicates it! Look at that boy Kane, died three
weeks ago. ‘Inflammation,’ said the
physician. Treated his symptoms properly enough.
The boy died. At the postmortem” here
the doctor paused in his walk, lowering his voice
almost to a whisper while he bent over the boy “at
the post-mortem the knife discovered an abscess on
the vermiform appendix. The discovery was made
too late.” These were the days before appendicitis
became fashionable. “Now, listen to me,”
continued the doctor, even more impressively, “I
believe in my soul that the knife at the proper moment
might have saved that boy’s life! A slight
incision an inch or two long, the removal of the diseased
part, a few stitches, and in a couple of weeks the
boy is well! Ah, boy! God knows I’d
give my life to be a great surgeon! But He didn’t
give me the fingers. Look at these,” and
he held up a coarse, heavy hand; “I haven’t
the touch. And besides, He brought me my wife,
the best thing I’ve got in the world, and my
baby, which settled the surgeon business forever.
Now listen, boy! You’ve got the nerve plenty
of men have that but you’ve also got
the fingers, which few men have. With your touch
and your steady nerve and your mechanical ingenuity I’ve
seen your machines, boy you can be a great
surgeon! But you must know your subject.
You must think, dream, sleep, eat, drink bones and
muscles and sinews and nerves. Push everything
else aside!” he cried, waving his great hands.
“And remember!” here his voice
took a solemn tone “let nothing share
your heart with your knife! Leave the women alone.
A woman has no business in science. She distracts
the mind, disturbs the liver, absorbs the vital powers,
besides paralysing the finances. For you, let
there be one woman, your mother, at least till you
are a surgeon. Now, then, there are my books and
all my spare time at your command.” At
these words the boy’s face, which had caught
the light and glow of the old man’s enthusiasm,
fell.
“Well, what now?” cried
the doctor, reading his face like a book.
“I have no right to take your books or your
time.”
The doctor sprang to his feet with
an oath. The boy also rose and faced him, almost
as if expecting a blow. For a moment they stood
steadfastly regarding each other, then the doctor’s
old face relaxed, his eyes softened. He put his
big hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Now, by the Lord that made
you and me!” he said, “we were meant for
a team, and a team we’ll make. I’ll
help you and I’ll make you pay.” The
boy’s face brightened.
“How?” he cried eagerly.
“We’ll change work.”
The doctor’s old eyes began to twinkle.
“I want fall ploughing done and my cordwood
hauled.”
“I’ll do it!” cried
Barney. A light broke in his eyes and flooded
his face. At last he saw his path.
“Here,” said the doctor,
taking down a book, “here’s your Gray.”
And turning the leaves, “Here’s what happened
to Ben Fallows. Read this. And here’s
the treatment,” pulling down another book and
turning to a page, “Read that. I’ll
make Ben your first patient. There’s no
money in it, anyway, and you can’t kill him.
He only needs three things, cleanliness, good cheer,
and good food. By and by we’ll get him a
leg. Here’s that Buffalo doctor’s
catalogue. Take it along. Now, boy, I’ll
work you, grind you, and you’ll go for your
first examination next spring.”
“Next spring!” cried Barney,
aghast, “not for three years.”
“Three years!” snorted
the doctor, “three fiddlesticks! You can
do this first examination by next spring.”
“Yes. I could do it,” said Barney
slowly.
The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line of
jaw on the boy’s face.
“But there’s the mortgage and there’s
Dick’s college.”
“Dick’s college? Why Dick’s
and not yours?”
The boy’s rugged face changed.
A tender light fell over it, filling in its cracks
and canyons.
“Because well, because
Dick must go through. Dick’s clever.
He’s awful clever.” Pride mingled
with the tenderness in look and tone. “Mother
wants him to be a minister, and,” he added after
a pause, “I do, too.”
The old doctor turned from him, stood
looking out of the window a few minutes, and then
came back. He put his hands on the boy’s
shoulders. “I understand, boy,” he
said, his great voice vibrating in deep and tender
tones, “I, too, had a brother once. Make
Dick a minister if you want, but meantime we’ll
grind the surgeon’s knife.”
The boy went home to his mother in high exultation.
“The doctor wants me to look
after Ben for him,” he announced. “He
is going to show me the dressings, and he says all
he wants is cleanliness, good cheer, and good food.
I can keep him clean. But how he is to get good
cheer in that house, and how he is to get good food,
are more than I can tell.”
“Good cheer!” cried Dick.
“He’ll not lack for company. How many
has she now, mother? A couple of dozen, more
or less?”
“There are thirteen of them already, poor thing.”
“Thirteen! That’s
an unlucky stopping place. Let us hope she won’t
allow the figure to remain at that.”
“Indeed, I am thinking it will
not,” said his mother, speaking with the confidence
of intimate knowledge.
“Well,” replied Dick,
with a judicial air, “it’s a question whether
it’s worse to defy the fate that lurks in that
unlucky number, or to accept the doubtful blessing
of another twig to the already overburdened olive
tree.”
“Ay, it is a hard time she is
having with the four babies and all.”
“Four, mother! Surely that’s
an unusual number even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows!”
“Whisht, laddie!” said
his mother, in a shocked tone, “don’t talk
foolishly.”
“But you said four, mother.”
“Twins the last twice,” interjected Barney.
“Great snakes!” cried Dick, “let
us hope she won’t get the habit.”
“But, mother,” inquired Barney seriously,
“what’s to be done?”
“Indeed, I can’t tell,” said his
mother.
“Listen to me,” cried
Dick, “I’ve got an inspiration. I’ll
undertake the ‘good cheer.’ I’ll
impress the young ladies into this worthy service.
Light conversation and song. And you can put up
the food, mother, can’t you?”
“We will see,” said the mother quietly;
“we will do our best.”
“In that case the ‘food
department’ is secure,” said Dick; “already
I see Ben Fallows making rapid strides toward convalescence.”
It was characteristic of Barney that
within a few days he had all three departments in
full operation. With great tact he succeeded in
making Mrs. Fallows thoroughly scour the woodwork
and whitewash the walls in Ben’s little room,
urging the doctor’s orders and emphasizing the
danger of microbes, the dread of which was just beginning
to obtain in popular imagination.
“Microbes? What’s
them?” inquired Mrs. Fallows, suspiciously.
“Very small insects.”
“Insects? Is it bugs you
mean?” Mrs. Fallows at once became fiercely
hostile. “I want to tell yeh, young sir,
ther’ hain’t no bugs in this ’ouse.
If ther’s one thing I’m pertickler ’bout,
it’s bugs. John sez to me, sez ’e,
‘What’s the hodds of a bug or two, Hianthy?’
But I sez to ’im, sez I, ’No bugs fer
me, John. I hain’t been brought up with
bugs, an’ bugs I cawn’t an’ won’t
‘ave.’”
It was only Barney’s earnest
assurance that the presence of microbes was no impeachment
of the most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that
these mysterious creatures were to be found in the
very highest circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally
appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his
“good food” department, soothing Mrs. Fallows’
susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that
in surgical cases such as Ben’s certain articles
of diet specially prepared were necessary to the best
results.
Not the least successful part of the
treatment prescribed was that furnished by the “good
cheer” department. This was left entirely
in Dick’s charge, and he threw himself into its
direction with the enthusiasm of a devotee. Iola
with her guitar was undoubtedly his mainstay.
But Dick was never quite satisfied unless he could
persuade Margaret, too, to assist in his department.
But Margaret had other duties, and, besides, she had
associated herself more particularly with Mrs. Boyle
in the work of supplementing Mrs. Fallows’ somewhat
unappetising though entirely substantial meals with
delicacies more suited to the sickroom. Dick,
however, insisted that with all that Iola and himself
in the “good cheer” department and Barney
in what he called the “scavenging” department
could achieve, there was still need of Margaret’s
presence and Margaret’s touch. Hence, before
the busy harvest time came upon them, he made a practice
of calling at the manse, and, relieving her of the
duty of getting to sleep little five-year-old Tom,
with whom he was first favourite, he would carry her
off to the Fallows household, whither Barney and Iola
had preceded them.
Altogether the “young doctor,”
as Ben called him, had reason to be proud of the success
he was achieving with his first patient. The amputation
healed over and the bone knit at the first intention,
and in a few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence.
He was never weary in his praises of the “young
doctor.” It was the “young doctor”
who, by changing the bandages, had eased him of the
intolerable pain which followed the first dressing.
It was the “young doctor” who had changed
the splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb,
bringing ease where there had been chafing pain.
“Let ’em ’ave
the old doctor if they want,” was Ben’s
final conclusion, “but fer me, the young
doctor, sez I.”