PATCHESBy Francis E. NorrisVan Gilder, although worth an easy million in his own name, was proud to be able to write M. D. after it. He had a practice, to be sure, but it was mostly upon poor dumb beasts made sick or otherwise to suit his passing purpose. This engrossed most of his time and attention. “It was so fascinating.” This pastime was called research, and, being a man of means, he could devote himself at will to it.And so it happened that one day when on his way to the laboratories he chanced to see the very specimen he “needed” for the day’s investigation. It was indeed a poor, wretched beast by the side of a still more wretched human who was on the corner begging. This was luck. Van Gilder usually was lucky.He stopped his electric alongside the curb and approached the pair.“Mister, would y’ be kind enough——”“Yes, surely, I can help you. Here’s ten dollars for your dog.”“Ten dollars? For Patches? Oh, no.”“Well, then, make it twenty-five. You need the money, and the dog will be out of your way.”“Patches? Sell him for twenty-five? To get him out of the way?” The wretched, shrivelled soul seemed dazed. “Why, sir, not for a thousand could you have that dog.”It was now Van Gilder’s turn to be puzzled. Nay, more; he was interested. Here was a man wretched, destitute, in the clutches of poverty, yet he said that not for a thousand dollars would he part with a mere useless dog.Couldhe mean it? Could a dog mean that much to any one? Or was he merely speaking in hyperbole? The question held Van Gilder. A thousand dollars. What would he do if actually offered a thousand dollars? This was research along a new line, but Van Gilder was determined to find out. A trip to the bank, and he returned with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.“You say you wouldn’t sell that cur for a thousand dollars?”“Not for a thousand dollars—would I, Patches?”“Y’ sure? Here’s a thousand dollars. Can I take the dog?”The sad, drawn face looked at the ten crisp golden bills as if in a trance, but never for a moment did the owner waver.“No, not for a thousand. Patches and I have seen better days, comrades we’ve been for years; he is as loyal to me to-day as ever, and we’ll not part till death does it. I could not sell my best friend, could I, Patches? All the rest have left me, butyouhave never once complained, have you, old fellow? No, my friend, I’m pretty low, but I’ll never be as low as that. I thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept.”Van Gilder, a puzzled, thoughtful man, got into his car and drove off. But not to the laboratories. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new light had burst upon him.
By Francis E. Norris
Van Gilder, although worth an easy million in his own name, was proud to be able to write M. D. after it. He had a practice, to be sure, but it was mostly upon poor dumb beasts made sick or otherwise to suit his passing purpose. This engrossed most of his time and attention. “It was so fascinating.” This pastime was called research, and, being a man of means, he could devote himself at will to it.
And so it happened that one day when on his way to the laboratories he chanced to see the very specimen he “needed” for the day’s investigation. It was indeed a poor, wretched beast by the side of a still more wretched human who was on the corner begging. This was luck. Van Gilder usually was lucky.
He stopped his electric alongside the curb and approached the pair.
“Mister, would y’ be kind enough——”
“Yes, surely, I can help you. Here’s ten dollars for your dog.”
“Ten dollars? For Patches? Oh, no.”
“Well, then, make it twenty-five. You need the money, and the dog will be out of your way.”
“Patches? Sell him for twenty-five? To get him out of the way?” The wretched, shrivelled soul seemed dazed. “Why, sir, not for a thousand could you have that dog.”
It was now Van Gilder’s turn to be puzzled. Nay, more; he was interested. Here was a man wretched, destitute, in the clutches of poverty, yet he said that not for a thousand dollars would he part with a mere useless dog.Couldhe mean it? Could a dog mean that much to any one? Or was he merely speaking in hyperbole? The question held Van Gilder. A thousand dollars. What would he do if actually offered a thousand dollars? This was research along a new line, but Van Gilder was determined to find out. A trip to the bank, and he returned with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
“You say you wouldn’t sell that cur for a thousand dollars?”
“Not for a thousand dollars—would I, Patches?”
“Y’ sure? Here’s a thousand dollars. Can I take the dog?”
The sad, drawn face looked at the ten crisp golden bills as if in a trance, but never for a moment did the owner waver.
“No, not for a thousand. Patches and I have seen better days, comrades we’ve been for years; he is as loyal to me to-day as ever, and we’ll not part till death does it. I could not sell my best friend, could I, Patches? All the rest have left me, butyouhave never once complained, have you, old fellow? No, my friend, I’m pretty low, but I’ll never be as low as that. I thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept.”
Van Gilder, a puzzled, thoughtful man, got into his car and drove off. But not to the laboratories. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new light had burst upon him.