""No--we don"t want no Dispensary sharp. We want you. Pal"s sent me for you--he knows you, but you mightn"t remember him."
""I"ll go." These are the people I can never refuse. They are on the hunted side of life and don"t have many friends. I slipped on my rubbers and coat, picked up my umbrella and my bag with my instruments in it; hung a card in the window so the hall-light would strike it, marked "Back in an hour"--in case the woman sent for me; locked my door and started after him.
"It was an awful night. The streets were running rivers, the wind rattling the shutters and flattening the umbrellas of everybody who tried to carry one--one of those storms that drives straight at the front of the house, drenching it from chimney to sidewalk. We waited under the gas-lamp, boarded a Sixth Avenue car, and got out at a signal from my companion. During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car, his hat slouched over his eyes, his coat-collar covering his ears. He evidently did not want to be recognized.
"If you know the neighborhood about Washington Street you know it"s the last resort of the hunted. When they want to hide, they burrow under one of these rookeries. That"s where the police look for them, only they"ve got so many holes they can"t stop them all. Captain Packett of the Ninth Precinct told me the other day that he"d rather hunt a rattlesnake in a tiger"s cage than go open-handed into some of the rookeries around Washington Street. I am never afraid in these places; a doctor"s like a Sister of Charity or a hospital nurse--they"re safe anywhere. I don"t believe that other fellow would have stolen my watch if he had known I was a doctor.
"When we left the car at Ca.n.a.l Street, my companion whispered to me to follow him, no matter where he went. We kept along close to the houses, past the dives--the streets, even here, were almost deserted; then I saw him drop down a cellarway. I followed, through long pa.s.sages, up a creaking pair of stairs, along a deserted corridor--only one gas-jet burning--up a second flight of stairs and into an empty room, the door of which he opened with a key which he held in his hand. He waited until I pa.s.sed in, locked the door behind us, felt his way to a window, the glow of some lights in the tenements opposite giving the only light in the room, and raised the sash. Then down a fire-escape, across a wooden bridge, which was evidently used to connect the two buildings; through an open door, and up another stairs. At the end of this last corridor my companion pushed open a door.
""Here"s the "Doc,"" I heard him say.
"I looked into a room about as big as this we sit in. It was filled with men, most of them on the floor with their backs to the wall. There was a cot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a cheap kerosene lamp, and one or two chairs. The only other furniture were a flour-barrel and a dry-goods box. On top of the barrel was a tin coffeepot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against the window--there was but one--was tacked a ragged calico quilt, shutting out air and light. Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fell on his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers and undershirt. The shirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him and the floor.
""Shot?" I asked of the man nearest me.
""Yes."
"I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The wound was just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs, and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal.
"The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily built fellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face.
""Is that you, "Doc"?"
""Yes, where does it hurt?"
"""Doc" Shipman--who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?"
""Yes--now tell me where the pain is."
""Let me look at you. Yes--that"s him. That"s the "Doc," boys. Where does it hurt?--Oh, all around here--back worst"--and he pa.s.sed his hand over his side.
"I looked him over again, put in a few st.i.tches, and fixed him up for the night. When I had finished he said:
""Come closer, "Doc"; am I going to die?"
""No, not this time; you"ll pull through. Close shave, but you"ll weather it. But you want some air. Here, you fellows"--and I motioned to two men leaning against the quilt tacked over the window--"rip that off and open that window. He"s got to breathe--too many of you in here, anyway,"
"One of the men moved the lidless dry-goods box against the wall, picked up the kerosene lamp and placed it inside, smothering its light; the other tore the lower end of the quilt from the sash, letting in the fresh, wet night-air.
"I turned to the wounded man again.
""You say you"ve seen me before?"
""Yes, once. You sewed this up"--and he held up his arm showing a healed scar. "You"ve forgot it, but I haven"t."
""Where?"
""Bellevue. They took me in there. You treated me white. That"s why my pal hunted you up. Say, Bill"--and he called to my companion with the slouch hat--"pay the "Doc.""
"Half a dozen men dove instantly into their pockets, but my companion already had his roll of bills in his hand. He bent over so that the glow of the half-smothered lamp could fall upon his hand, unrolled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me.
"I pa.s.sed it back to him. "I don"t want this. Five dollars is my fee. If you haven"t anything smaller, wait till I come to-morrow, then you can give me a ten. I"m ready to go now; lead the way out."
"Next morning I went to see him again. Bill, by arrangement, met me at the corner of the street and took me to the wounded man"s room, in and out, by the same route we had taken the night before. I found he had pa.s.sed a good night, had no fever, and was all right. I left some medicine and directions, got my ten dollars, and never went again.
"Last month, some two days before Christmas, I was sitting here reading--it was after twelve o"clock--when I heard a tap on the window-pane. I pushed aside the shade and looked out a thick-set man motioned me to open the door. When he got inside the hall he said:
""Ain"t forgot me again, have you, "Doc"!"
""No, you"re the man I fixed up in Washington Street last fall."
""Yea, that"s right, "Doc"; that"s me. Can I come in? I got something for you."
"I brought him in and he sat down on that sofa. Then he pulled out a package from his inside pocket.
"""Doc,"" he began, "I was thinking to-night of what you done for me and how you did it, and how decent you"ve been about it always, and I thought maybe you wouldn"t feel offended if I brought you this bunch of scarfpins to take your pick from"--and he unwrapped the bundle. "There"s a pearl one--that might please you--and here"s another that sparkles--take your pick, "Doc." It would please me a heap if you would"--and he handed me half a dozen scarfpins stuck in a flannel rag--some of them of great value.
"I didn"t know what to say at first. I couldn"t get mad. I saw he was in dead earnest, and I saw, too, that it was pure grat.i.tude on his part that prompted him to do it. That"s a kind of human feeling you don"t want to crush out in a man. When he"s got that, no matter what else he lacks, you"ve got something to build on. I pulled out the pearl pin from the others. I wanted to get time to make up my mind as to what I really ought to do.
""Very nice pin," I said.
""Yes, I thought so. I got it on a Sixth Avenue car. Maybe you"ll like the gold one better; take your pick, it"s all the same to me. That one you"ve got in your hand is a good one." I was slowly looking them over, making up my mind how I would refuse them and not hurt his feelings.
""How did you get this one?" I asked, holding up the pearl pin.
""I picked it up outside Cooper Union."
""On the sidewalk?"
""No, from a feller"s scarf. I held the cab door for him." He spoke exactly as if he had been a collector who had been roaming the world for curios. "Take "em both, "Doc"--or all of "em--I mean it."
"I laid the bundle on the table and said: "Well, that"s very kind of you and I don"t want you to think I don"t appreciate it--but you see I don"t wear scarfpins, and if I did I don"t think I ought to take these. You see we have two different professions--you"ve got yours and I"ve got mine. I saw off men"s legs, or I help them through a spell of sickness.
They pay me for it in money. You"ve got another way of making your living. Your patients are whoever you happen to meet. I mightn"t like your way of doing, and you mightn"t like mine. That"s a matter of opinion, or, perhaps, of education. You"ve got your risks to run, and I"ve got mine. If I cut too deep and kill a man they can shut me up--just as they can if you get into trouble. But I don"t think we ought to mix up the proceeds. You wouldn"t want me to give you this five-dollar Bill--and I held up a note a patient had just paid me--"and therefore I don"t see how I ought to take one of your pins. I may not have made it plain to you--but it strikes me that way."
""Then you ain"t mad "cause I brought "em?"--and he looked at me searchingly from under his dark eyebrows, his lips firmly set.
""No, I"m very grateful to you for wanting to give them to me--only I don"t see my way clear to take them."
"He settled back on the sofa and began twirling his hat with his hand.
Then he rose from his seat, a shade of disappointment on his face, and said, slowly:
""Well, "Doc," ain"t there something else I can do for you? Man like you must have _something_ you want--something you can"t get without somebody"s help. Think now--you mightn"t see me again."
"Instantly I thought of my mother"s watch.
""Yes, there is. Somebody came along one night when I was asleep and borrowed my vest hanging over that chair by the window, and my trousers, and my mother"s watch was in the vest pocket. If you could help me get that back you would do me a real service--one I wouldn"t forget."
""What kind of a watch?"