Chapter II

It was only half-past twelve when Trench got back to his office, and Wu, who was now on duty, reported that Dr. Rowland wished Dr. Trench to call him up, at Mr. Drummond’s. Trench complied. Mrs. Drummond had brought Bobbie down from Encampment, sick. It had taken Rowland some time to see the case as diphtheria. He had given ten thousand units, but the child was growing rapidly worse. Rowland would feel better if the case were transferred to Trench. He had said as much to Mr. and Mrs. Drummond, and they had consented.

Trench guessed that what was really weighing on Rowland was his loss of the older child. Otherwise he would merely have repeated his request for a consultation. Trench promised to come at once.

Shortly after one he was admitted to the Drummond house. Drummond came forward, his face tense with anxiety. Helena Drummond was in the third story, with the boy and the nurse and Dr. Rowland. Presently in came Edith Bridgman. As Trench took her hand the impulse again rose within him. Strange—almost sinister—at such a moment!

He went up to the third story, donned his gown, and entered the sick room. Helena greeted him. “This is terribly different from Encampment.”

Trench smiled. “He is stored full with summer. Don’t worry!”

He went to where Rowland sat by the bed. Bobbie noticed him, in spite of feeling so light in the head, and reached out a hand. It seemed to take all his time and attention to draw his breath. Trench guessed that within an hour Bobbie would find it pretty hard to do even that much.

Dr. Rowland told all that he knew of the boy’s clinical history, and then took his leave with the manners of the old school. As he went downstairs he felt very much chagrined, but he was a Christian gentleman, and knew that he was doing the right thing.

“Well, Bob,” said Trench, “I haven’t forgotten that you are going to be a scout. Does your breath come pretty hard, scout?”

Bobbie grinned and nodded.

“It will come harder yet, so that your mother will be scared. You know what women are like. Think you can stand it?”

Bobbie shut his teeth—for one second—and nodded.

“If you say so, I’ll slip a little tube in there, and you’ll breathe easier.”

“Ready,” whispered Bobbie stridently, and it made his head whirl.

“Put a sheet around him, Miss Neale, good and tight, so that he won’t biff me. Saw a papoose in the hospital the other day, Bob. It couldn’t sleep, and they couldn’t make it sleep. I remembered the one you and I saw in the woods—the one that was set up against a tree. I said to myself, if Bob Drummond were here, he’d tell the nurse to set the kid up against a tree. So I did. And she put a small board to his back—one of those boards that they iron coatsleeves on, and strapped the kid to it—that’s good, Miss Neale—and held him upright, as Miss Neale is holding you, and he went to sleep like a coon in the top of a gumtree. Here’s the tube—which we fasten like this on the end—like a trout on the end of a fork—while Miss Neale holds the scout’s mouth open—from the side—very nicely—with a bridle on the end of a pair of—steady, scout!”

Bobbie was struggling for breath. He was a bear with dogs at his throat. Everything was growing black, like night in the woods.

There was a swift finger-tip in his throat—the poising of something exactly beside it, a gentle pressure, and still the finger-tip while the other hand withdrew. Then Bobbie felt himself coming up out of dark, deep water, because the bear—or maybe it was one of the dogs had jumped down his throat—like Hiawatha down the sturgeon—and let the air in.

“Good scout! Shall have a decoration when the war is over. Hear the breeze whistling up the river. Cough all you please, but I don’t think you’ll cough up that one.”

When Bobbie’s arms were free again, Mrs. Drummond followed Miss Neale into the next room.

“Did it have to be done?”

Miss Neale looked at her sharply. “Couldn’t you see? No, of course not, for I didn’t myself. How did he know that there was going to be that sudden plugging? He deserves his reputation.”

“And it was—a good job?”

“Exquisite. Not a second lost. And gentle—why, I’ve seen lacerations that would make you sick.”

Helena returned to the sick room. Bobbie was still coughing, but the doctor was smiling at him, and the boy was smiling back. His head did not whirl, and the scoutmaster was standing with him, shoulder to shoulder.

Trench gave more antitoxin that evening. Bobbie drank his milk according to orders. Bobbie beckoned to his mother, to indicate that he would like to kiss her good night. Trench shook his head. Then Bobbie reached out and pulled on the doctor’s gown. Trench bent down, and Bobbie kissed him full on the lips. Then the sufferer dozed a while, though real sleep would not come.

Grey morning, and Bobbie got to coughing again, and up came the tube.

“What’s this, what’s this? Scout carrying concealed weapons? Let me see where it came from?—Ah, sky’s clearing up. Pink morning at Encampment. Good day to go fishing.”

“They bite best when it’s cloudy,” said Bobbie, in a drowsy but unobstructed voice.

“So they do, so they do,” murmured the doctor. But Bobbie was asleep.

Miss Neale knew that they were by no means out of the woods yet. The next night or two would bring their own problems, and she was glad now to be relieved by a second nurse. But before she slept, she expressed to Mrs. Drummond her feeling that the worst was over.

Helena telephoned the whole story to her husband. “Try—try to express your feelings to him.”

Feelings? When Trench descended, Drummond seized him by both hands.

“I’m not a rich man, as rich men go to-day, but you can have anything I’ve got. I’m going to do something for you. If you can’t think of anything better, perhaps I will build you a children’s pavilion for the Lister.”

“You mustn’t say such things to me, Mr. Drummond. Nobody ever did before. I might take you up.”

Edith Bridgman brought the doctor his breakfast, which she had prepared with her own hands. He did not know that the silver was her mother’s wedding silver and had not been used since her mother died. She said something about the need of beefsteak after a hard night—tried to say something else, failed, and left the room.