Читать книгу The Man from Jericho - Edwin Carlile Litsey - Страница 5

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When Glenning opened his eyes the next morning he lay quiet a long time, staring at the figure seated by his bedside. At first he was at a total loss to understand where he was, but a sharp pain in his lungs when he breathed, and sundry irritating, prickly places about his face and head, brought back to him the events of the past night. But he was a philosophical fellow, and while he felt a deep gratitude welling up in his heart for young Tom Dillard, he could not help smiling at the appearance his newly-found friend presented that morning. It was quite plain to Glenning's still befuddled intellect that Dillard had elected to stay with him and take care of him during the night. The bank clerk's figure was almost corpulent in daylight, and this was emphasized by the attitude he had assumed. He had evidently determined not to go to sleep, but the relaxation and absolute quiet succeeding the excitement at the burning of the stable had proven too much for him. Now he sat with his heels on a rung of the chair, his knees drawn up, while his head had sunk forward till it almost touched them. In this position he bore a striking resemblance to a butterball, and when Glenning first saw him he was slumbering with much effort, because his breathing was hampered by his cramped posture. There was something in it all over-poweringly funny to John, and presently he chuckled aloud. Whereupon his watcher gave a little snort and opened his eyes, round, blue, and innocent as a child's.

"Bless me, if I haven't been asleep!" exclaimed Dillard, a bit sheepishly. Then—"How are you feeling, doctor?"

"Chipper as a lark—considering!" was the hearty answer. "But I hope I'll never come closer to hell than I did last night," he added.

Dillard shivered at the recollection, and a look of commiseration crept to his face.

"It's clear past me how you did it," he replied, candidly. "Log chains and a traction engine couldn't have pulled me in that place. But you've fixed yourself all right with the people, I guess. I'll bet your name has gone all over this old town long before now."

"I didn't do it for what the people would think, though I do want their good will. But did you see the look on that girl's face when she spoke? I couldn't have done anything else. Where are we?—hotel?"

"Yes, this is your room at the Union House. We thought you were out of the game for good at first. You don't remember anything after the horse ran over you? Well, the Dudley's old nigger, Peter, dragged you away from the heat, and Miss Julia made a pillow of her lap for your head. They were for taking you up to the house and caring for you, for you did them a greater service than you'll ever know when you pulled that obstreperous colt out of the fire. But I knew that wouldn't do, because they're not situated to entertain well folks, let alone sick ones, so I got a buggy, piled you in, and drove here as fast as I could. As luck would have it, old Doctor Kale was passing just as we got here—had been making a country call—and I hailed him. We got you up here and brought you around, though I don't suppose you remember anything about it, for you were kind o' flighty. Old Kale washed you off and patched you up, and gave you something to make you sleep soundly. I volunteered to sit up with you and watch, but I played the devil a-doin' it! Kale said he'd call around again this mornin' to see you. He's a gruff old cuss, but good hearted. He often swears at his men patients if they don't obey him to the letter. I tell you this now, so you won't be surprised at anything he may say to you."

Glenning put out a blackened hand from the back of which the hair had been singed away. Dillard saw his intention, and took it readily.

"I hope you'll let me be your friend," said the new doctor, appreciation beaming in his eyes. "I can't tell you just all I feel for the way you've stuck by me, a total stranger, who had not the slightest claim upon your time, or care. But I shan't forget it. A life-long chum couldn't have done more, and I want to assure you that my gratitude is the kind that lasts. I don't know what's in store for me here, but I've come to stay. And I'm going to make good if toil, and hard work, and conscientious pains count for anything. I was climbing fast back—where I came from, but it became best for me to leave. Not because I had to. There's nothing back there I'm ashamed of. You're the first person here who's been kind to me, and I did nothing to deserve it. I shall remember it always."

He pressed the soft, flabby hand which he held, and withdrew his arm.

Dillard's face reddened at this speech. He made a few awkward movements with his hands, and then spoke, in an abashed way.

"I've done nothin', doctor, to make a fuss about, but I'll be mighty glad to be your friend. I imagine a fellow with the stuff in him that you are made of would be worth having for a friend."

He drew out his watch and looked at it, rising quickly as he noted the time.

"It's getting late. By the time I get breakfast and reach the bank it'll be close onto nine. I'm glad you're lookin' so well. Don't try to get up today. I'll call in at noon for a minute. Good-bye."

He leaned over the bed and pressed Glenning's hand again, then took his hat and withdrew, closing the door gently behind him.

When his fat friend had departed, Glenning mechanically sent his eyes around the room. It contained, besides the bed upon which he lay, the customary washstand, dresser, table and two chairs. His clothes lay upon one of these chairs, and he looked in a rather disinterested way at the scorched and burned garments, now rendered totally useless. Then his mind flew back to those awful moments in the stall with The Prince, and he shut his eyes and groaned audibly. The door to his room opened, and he heard the clinking of dishes. He looked, and saw a waiter bearing a tray to the table in the center of his room. The young fellow deposited his burden, then glanced towards the bed with respectful eyes, as some might gaze upon a hero overthrown.

"Here's your breakfast, sir. I'll bring it closer if you want me to. Mr. Dillard told us you were awake and feeling pretty well, so Mr. Travers thought you might be hungry."

"Thank you," returned Glenning. "I'll be getting up presently. You needn't wait."

The boy moved reluctantly to the door. He had his hand on the knob, then turned.

"I didn't go to the burnin' o' ol' man Dudley's barn," he vouchsafed, in a rather high, scared voice, "but if I'd knowed what you's goin' to do I wouldn't 'a' missed seein' you pull that hoss out. The town's wild about it."

Without waiting for a reply of any sort, the speaker ducked through the door and slammed it after him. It had taken a deal of courage for him to deliver his speech, but he was determined to say it.

Glenning eyed the disarray of dishes dubiously. Some of them appeared cold, while the faint odour which crept to his nostrils from the others was not at all savory. But the rich aroma of coffee blended with the other smells, and he was on the verge of making an effort to rise when there came a faint rap upon his door. It was so faint that John was not sure he had heard it. He was quite certain there had been no sound of footsteps. As he lay with his head in an expectant attitude the rap came again—two little pecking knocks, given timorously. The man on the bed relaxed, drew the cover which he had thrown partly aside up to his chin, and invited whoever it was to enter, in a fairly strong voice.

Then a most extraordinary thing happened at the door. The knob was deliberately turned, then released. Again it was turned, and the door carefully opened about two inches. It remained this way for the space of a breath or two, then the aperture was widened by perhaps another two inches. Glenning was puzzled. If some one was pranking, the sport was certainly very innocent. By almost imperceptible degrees the door kept coming open, and then a bald, brown, sleek skull, surrounded by a fringe of white wool, came within the range of vision of the watcher on the bed. Peter looked slowly all around the room, and the last object his eyes alighted upon was the man. Then he completed his entrance in a comparatively rapid manner, bobbing his head unceasingly, and being careful to see that the door was latched behind him. Then he bowed profoundly.

"Mawnin', suh! I hope you's bettuh, suh! De Prince am not hu't much, 'n' de folks feel putty peart, suh! De Lawd bress yo', suh—doctuh—'n' keep yo' twel de day o' Jedgment fo' savin' dat' deah colt whut would 'a' buhned to a cracklin' but fo' you. Yes, suh! Dis ol nigguh gwi' ax de Lawd's blessin' on you night 'n' mawnin', 'n' I'm 'bleeged to yo', suh, fo' whut you done las' night!"

Glenning had no difficulty in recognizing in his effusive caller the old negro who had played a star part in the barn lot. But there was something which claimed his attention above the volubility of Peter, and that was a square envelope, tinted a delicate blue, which the darky carried in one of his wrinkled hands.

"Thank you, old gentleman," he said, "for your interest and your kindness. I hope the Dudleys did not suffer from exposure last night."

"De young missus tek a li'l col', suh, but de Major, suh, am all right—I'm 'bleeged to yo'." He made another profound obeisance. "I wuz sent dis mawnin', suh—doctuh—by de folks to 'quiah ob yo' health, suh, 'n' gib dis lettuh into yo' han'. It was writ by de Major, 'n' gib to me by de young missus, who says, says she—'Peter, gib dis to de man whut save our Prince, 'n' to nobody else.' Here it am, suh. I cyaried it on top o' my haid under my hat right to yo' do', kase I's feared I'd lose it."

He shambled across the room and gave the missive to the hand stretched out to receive it.

"I mus' be goin' now, suh—doctuh—but I's 'spressly to ax how yo' wuz?"

"Present my sympathy and respects to your folks, and assure them I am not hurt—only a few bruises and burns which do not annoy me in the least. Say, in fact, that you left me feeling well."

"Thank yo', suh—doctuh—'n' you're a man whut is a man!"

With this parting encomium, which to his mind represented the acme of praise, Peter shuffled to the door, bowed again, and went out.

"Heigh-ho!" mused Glenning. "It seems, indeed, that 'there is a tide in the affairs of men.' From what I can hear I have started in well. Let's see what that fine looking old gentleman has to say."

Tearing the tough fibre of the paper with some difficulty, he drew out the folded sheet, and opened it. The handwriting was angular, legible, and painfully correct. The ink was brownish, as though it had been watered often. He read rapidly.

"Dear Doctor Glenning:

"This morning we learned the name of the heroic stranger who did us such unparalleled service last night upon the occasion of the burning of our stable. We wish to convey to you at the earliest moment a sense of our profound gratitude for your noble act. My daughter and I feel that we can never repay the debt under which you have placed us by your marvelous bravery. I shall call this afternoon to thank you in person, and I pray you will at all times consider our house your own. The colt is practically uninjured. It is our prayer that you have not suffered seriously.

"Your obliged and obedient servant,

"Thomas Dudley."

"Fine!" breathed Glenning. "A little stilted, perhaps, but true and sincere. He means every word. Writes like a Clay or a Webster. There's blood back of it—Kentucky bluegrass blood. And she—she did not know she was a queen of tragedy last night when she made her appeal. Who could that have been who tried to get in ahead of me? Ugh! He was a devil! When she saw him coming she looked daggers of scorn and contempt. There's something back of it all, I'll wager. Could that terrible thing dare to love her, I wonder? If he does, it's one-sided. But she's beautiful! I'd go into another burning stable tonight if she looked at me as she did then, and asked me."

As he folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope he suddenly realized that his coffee must be getting cold. He smiled at the incongruity of the thought, but he was very hungry, so he essayed to rise. The effort necessary to get onto his elbow brought numerous darting pains to a dozen places at once, and made his temples throb. But his firm jaws were not for nothing, and presently his feet were on the floor and he was standing upright, dizzy, and holding to the head of the bed. His chest burned as though coals of fire were laid upon it. He waited a few moments, battling with physical weakness, then steered an uncertain course for the washstand. How sweet was the touch of cool water on his hot, parched face! He dashed it over his head and neck and face by the handsful and felt his brain clear as if by magic. And there is magic in a basin of cold water, as anyone can testify. Directly he set about dressing. His trunk and suit case sat in a corner, and when he had donned underwear, shirt and trousers his strength left him, and he feebly sought a chair by the table and gulped down the coffee. Then, by sheer force of will, he began to eat. The food was half cold, and not good. It would not have been good had it come just from the oven, but it gave strength, nevertheless. The man felt the elation of returning vigour as he ate. His meal was not half finished when a hurried, thumping step was heard in the corridor without, his door was unceremoniously and roughly opened, and Doctor Kale entered. He was a man getting along in life; full bearded, grizzled. His beard and hair curled slightly, and beneath his rather heavy brows keen, kind eyes danced incessantly. He was not very particular as to his apparel. His clothing was baggy, and none too clean. He wore boots, with his trousers legs pulled down over them. His vest was secured by the bottom button alone. There was a row of buttons, but only one was used. This left exposed to fullest view a shirt front which had doubtless been clean when the garment to which it belonged had been first put on, but which was now flecked and streaked with yellow stains which showed plainly that its wearer used tobacco. A derby hat of a past age was on his head, and he carried a medicine case much battered from long use. His right leg was shorter than his left—rheumatism had done it—and this accounted for his peculiar gait. He stopped in blank surprise for a moment when he saw his erstwhile patient sitting up and eating, then the vials of his wrath exploded.

"What in the devil do you mean by getting up, young man?" he thundered. "Get back in bed! You'll die! You won't live till night!"

He placed his case on the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket and removed his hat, and fiercely took a turn or two up and down the room, mopping his head and face as he went. It was well for Glenning that a friend had prepared him for this visit.

"Pardon me for not rising to meet you, Doctor Kale," he said, feeling his risibles stirring, and endeavoring to maintain a steady countenance. "But I feel much better, thanks to your attention."

"Any fool could have washed the dirt off and stuck court plaster on you," growled the caller, still belligerent. "How do you know my name, and who told you you might get up?"

"The young man who spent the night with me told me you would call this morning, and I got tired lying in bed with nothing the matter with me—"

"Nothing the matter with you! Why, you're burned, and cut, and thumped, and bruised. It's a wonder the Lord let you off alive for being such an idiot. It seems to me you'd have had better sense than to go in a burning stable just to pull out one good-for-nothing horse which don't earn its hay!"

"Circumstances were such that I had no other choice," answered Glenning, a bit distantly.

"Circumstances!" sniffed Doctor Kale. "Yes, I heard about the circumstances, and when you've lived as long as I have, you won't butt your head into a little hell every time a pretty girl winks!"

The blood rushed to John's face, and even Dillard's warning did not serve to check his tongue.

"She didn't wink!" he retorted, rather hotly. "But she asked for help, and I gave it to her, as any man would!"

The caller cast a sidelong glance at the figure by the table, then stumped over to the bed and sat down upon it.

"Tom Dillard told me that you were the new doctor the Herald said was coming here to locate, and that your name was Glenning."

"Yes, John Glenning is my name, and my profession is the same as yours."

"Well, it's a damn bad one!" ejaculated Doctor Kale. "That is, the profession ain't so bad, but it's a worrisome and unappreciative life. It's a hard way to earn a living, young man, and if you hadn't started in it I'd advise you to try something else, even if it was beating rock on the county road. People expect you to be always ready, day or night, to jump up and run to them, even if you are sick yourself. Then you are the last man they want to pay when it comes time to settle, and they always think you're trying to rob them. I've worn my life away trying to serve them, and they call me a skinflint and a miser because I own one or two nigger shacks and try to save what little I make! You've come to a mighty poor place to make your fortune, and it's a mighty hard life you're beginning."

"I've practiced some already, and did not find the work hard, or uncongenial. And I also found people very obliging. But I love the work, doctor, and I suspect that counts for a great deal!"

"Love it!" snorted Doctor Kale; "I never did love it! It's slavery—a dog's life! Here, last night, I was coming in from the country tired to death and headed for bed, when that fool Dillard held me up and hauled me up here to work on you! Don't you see? Work, work, work!"

"But that's what we're put here for. Employment is our salvation. Suppose everybody stopped work. What would happen to the world?... But you did a good job with me, and you must permit me to compliment your skill."

Unknowingly Glenning had found the vulnerable spot in the old fellow's armour. His eyes took on a kinder gleam, but the look he bent on the young man was not unmixed with suspicion.

"Think I helped you, eh? Maybe I did. I've fooled around diseased and mistreated bodies the most of a lifetime, and I ought to know something, if I don't. Where're you from? The Herald said, but I can't remember."

"Jericho. It's rather in the northeastern part of the State. Not large; something like this place in population."

"D'you take this for a hamlet, young man?" fired up Doctor Kale. "Fifth class city, sir, and we're growin' by the minute."

"No offense, I'm sure," smiled Glenning. "You must remember I haven't seen your tow—city, by daylight."

"You've seen the prettiest thing in it by firelight, though."

A swift change had come over the combative features of Doctor Kale, and his wrinkled face bore a reminiscent look. There was a distant expression in his eyes; he seemed to be gazing into the past.

Glenning pushed the tray and its contents away and leaned his head on his hand.

"The prettiest woman in the county, and I might say in Kentucky," mused the man on the bed.

He got up and walked limping to his patient, and as he began an examination of hidden bandages and general physical condition his flow of talk continued in a wonderfully changed and melodious voice.

"I've known the family always. These hands were the first hands which touched that little girl when she came into the world, and I've watched her in sickness and in health up till now. Julia's as sweet as God could make her, and that's about as sweet as a woman can get. The old Major's game, and stiff, and proud as the devil, and poor as Lazarus, but he's a gentleman; a gentleman, sir, who'd pawn his last coat to pay a debt and go through the winter in his shirt sleeves. I could never get closer than arm's length to the Major, but Julia—" His voice stopped, and Glenning, stealing a glance at his face, saw that his lips were tight and he was slowly shaking his head. "She's a wonderful girl," he resumed, presently, while his hands glided deftly about here and there. "She came to me once when nobody else would have done in her place, when my greatest sorrow was on me, and I won't forget it—I won't forget it—I'll tell it to God Almighty when we stand before Him together!"

Glenning had no words in which to answer this unusual discourse. He remained silent, and presently the doctor stepped aside.

"I swear you seem fit as a fiddle!" he avowed, in his old peremptory tones. "You must be a tough nut. How do you feel? Any internal pains?"

His patient drew a long breath, and a grimace which he could not check in time shot over his face.

"Don't lie to me, you young rascal! Where does it hurt?"

"Inside; here."

The speaker placed his hand on his right lung.

"It ought to hurt there, for you've a bruise as big as a soup plate. Nothing dangerous, but you must be careful. Stay in this room for two days, anyway, and lie down most of the time. Do you promise?"

"I suppose I'll have to," replied Glenning, somewhat ruefully.

Doctor Kale thumped over to his hat and medicine case. Jamming the hat on his head till it almost rested on his ears, he grabbed his case, then swung around and gazed keenly at the new doctor.

"Are you married?" he demanded, abruptly, and in a manner which in anyone else would have been highly impertinent.

"No," was the answer, given quite gravely.

A meaningless snort greeted this inoffensive monosyllable. Then Doctor Kale began to parade the room, thumping and storming.

"Why in hell ain't you? A doctor ought to be married—adds to his respectability. And here you come sneakin' into Macon not married!"

He stopped about three feet in front of the figure in the chair.

"I may be a rascal, as some people say, but I'm no fool. You're not married, and you went into a fiery furnace to save Julia Dudley's horse. Now I've got this to say. The man who gets her has me to reckon with as well as the old Major. Damned if he don't have to prove himself, and be as clean as a white-washed wall! Good morning, sir!"

He stamped to the door, went out, slammed it furiously behind him, and was gone.