For some minutes there was silence in the room. Up from the bar, through the thin partition, 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 passed 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 passed 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, God 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.
