“Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick himself ye're dodgin'.”
Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos.
“Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be praised! He's there yit,” said Tommy to himself. “We're on the dump now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!”
The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush roads, finding the smooth surface of the railway grade beneath their feet, set off at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow was driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout little Irishman cared nothing for himself. His concern was for the man lying under the buffalo robes in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up their tireless lope, encouraged by the cheery admonitions and the cracking whip of their driver.
“Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail aff a brass monkey. I'll jist be afther givin' the lad a taste.”
He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a parting lash, took a flask from his pocket, and got down on his knees beside the sick man.
“Here, Scotty,” he said coaxingly, “take another taste. It'll put life into ye.” The sick man tried to swallow once, twice, choked hard, then shook his head. “Now, God be merciful! an' can't ye swally at all? An' the good stuff it is, too! Thry once more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need it an' we're not far aff now.” Once more the sick man made a desperate effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, then turned away his head. The tender-hearted little Irishman covered him over carefully and climbed into his seat. “He couldn't swally it,” he said to himself in an awed voice, putting the flask to his own lips, “Begorra, an' it's near the Kingdom he must be!” To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign of approaching dissolution that a man should reject the contents of his flask. He gave himself to the business of getting out of the bronchos all the speed they had. “Come on, now, me bhoys!” he shouted through the gale, “what are ye lookin' at? Sure, there's nothin' purtier than yerselves can be seen in the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, thin, an' larn manners! Now ye're beginin' to move! Hooray!”
So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge his team till they came out into a clearing at the far end of which twinkled the lights of the new railroad town being built about Maclennan's camp No. 1.
“Hivin be praised! we're there at last. Begob, it's mesilf that thought ye'd moved to the ind of nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the docthor puttin' life into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, Scotty?” But there was no movement in response. “Howly Mary! Give us a little more speed!” He stood up over his team, lashing and yelling till the tired beasts were going at full gallop. As he drew near the camp the sound of singing came on the driving wind. “Now the divil fly away wid the whiskey! It's pay day an' the camp's loose. God send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at hand!”
Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, black outlines of the various structures of the pioneer town. First came the camp building, the bunkhouse, grub-house, office, blacksmith shop, and beyond these the glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while back nearer timber the “red lights,” the curse and shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their baleful lure through the snowy night.
At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to the door of the first saloon and before they were well stopped burst open the door, crying out, “Give us a hand here, min, for the love o' God!” Swipey, the saloon-keeper, came himself to the door.
“What have you there, Tommy?” he asked.
“It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we started out. Are ye there, Scotty?” There was no answer. “The saints be good to us! Are ye alive at all?” He lifted back the buffalo robe from the sick man's face and he found him breathing heavily, but unable to speak. “Where's yer doctor?”
“Haven't seen him raound,” said Swipey. “Have you, Shorty?”
“Yes,” replied the man called Shorty. “He's in there with the boys.”
Tommy swore a great oath. “Like our own docthor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are! Sure, they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots!”
“He's not that way,” replied Swipey, “our doctor.”
“Not much he ain't!” cried Shorty. “But he's into the biggest game with 'Mexico' an' the boys ye ever seen in this camp.”
“Fer the love av Hivin git him!” cried Tommy. “The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in.”
“There's no place here for a sick man,” said the saloon-keeper.
“What? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye!”
“Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't got time.” An angry murmur ran through the men about the door. “Take him up to the bunk-house,” said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of oaths. “What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound my house for with a sick man? How do you know what he's got?”
“What differ does it make what he's got?” retorted Tommy. “Blank yer dirty face fer a bloody son of a sheep thief! It's plinty of me money ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'll I take the man to?” he cried, appealing to the crowd. “Ye can't let him die on the street!”
Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the “Frank” saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of “Black Jack” for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat “Mexico,” the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.
“The doctor's wanted!” shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor remained unmoved.
“There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2,” continued Shorty.
“Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!” growled out “Mexico,” who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
“He's out here in the snow,” continued Shorty, “an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him.”
The doctor looked up from his hand. “Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon.”
“They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death.”
The doctor turned down his cards. “What do you say? Choking to death?” He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to assert itself.
“Yes,” continued Shorty. “There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in.”
The doctor pushed back his chair. “Here, men,” he said, “I'm going to quit.”
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
“You can't quit now!” growled “Mexico” fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. “You've got to give us a chance.”
“Well, here's your chance then,” cried the doctor. “Let's stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a dollar, and quit. Come on.”
The greatness of the opportunity staggered them.
Then they flung themselves upon it. “It's a go!” “Come on!” “Give us your cards!” Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake.
“Now, then, show down,” growled “Mexico.”
The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their hands. He had won. With an oath “Mexico” made a grab for the pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak “Mexico” was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair.
“Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game,” said the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them down into his pocket. “Where's your sick man?”
“This way, doctor,” said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh. The doctor passed him on a run.
“What does this mean?” he cried. “Why haven't you got him inside somewhere?”
“That's what I say, docthor,” answered Tommy, “but the bloody haythen wudn't let him in.”
“How's this, Swipey?” said the doctor sternly, turning to the saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door.
“He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?”
“I'll take that responsibility,” replied the doctor. “In he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now.”
Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.
“Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm. Be quick about it.”
Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. “It must be warm, eh? Want a bath in it next, I suppose.”
“This will do,” said the doctor when they reached the room. “Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty.” Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed between heated blankets. “Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back.”
He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two hot-water bottles.
“We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full of hot water for me.”
“What is it, Doctor?” cried Shorty anxiously.
“Go quick!” The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work.
“Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way.” Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second injection. “There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here within an hour.” Shorty turned to go. “Wait. Do you know this man's name?”
“I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I think.”
“All right. Now, go and get the teamster.”
The doctor turned to his struggle with death. “There is no chance, no chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!” he muttered, as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get his breath.
After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and looked about. The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay.
“You want something out of your pocket?” inquired the doctor. The eyes gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had followed every movement expressed satisfaction.
“Do you want me to read it?”
It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face.
“Something else in your pocket?”
The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came to a large worn pocketbook.
“This?”
With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his hand and carried it painfully to his lips. Once more the eyes began to question.
“You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes.” The eyes remained wide open. “No? You want me to do something for you? To write?” At once the eyes closed. “I shall write to your mother and send all your things and tell them about you.” A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word “Thank.”
“Thank who? The teamster?”
The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers.
“Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you,” said the doctor. “Anything else?”
The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, “Mother—home,” and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling.
“You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?” And once more a glad smile lit up the distorted face.
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.
At Camp No. 2 Maclennan had struck what was called a hard proposition. The line ran straight through a muskeg out of which the bottom seemed to have dropped, and Maclennan himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was almost in despair. For every day they were held back by the muskeg meant a serious reduction in the profits of Maclennan's contract.
The foreman, Craigin, was a man from “across the line,” skilled in railroad building, selected chiefly because of his reputation as a “driver.” He was a man of great physical force and indomitable will, and gifted in large measure with the power of command. He knew his business thoroughly and knew just how to get the most out of the machinery and men at his command. He himself was an untiring worker, and no man on the line could get a bigger day out of his force than could Craigin. His men he treated as part of his equipment. He believed in what was called his “scrap-heap policy.” When any part of the machinery ceased to do first-class work it was at once discarded, and, as with the machinery, so it was with the men. A sick man was a nuisance in the camp and must be got rid of with all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was to suspect him of malingering, and hence the standing order of the camp in regard to a sick man was that he should get to work or be sent out of the camp. Hence the men thoroughly hated their foreman, but as thoroughly they dreaded to fall under his displeasure.
The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick with underbrush of spruce and balsam and tamarack. The site had been selected after a month of dry weather in the fall, consequently the real condition of the ground was not discovered until the late rains had swollen the streams from the mountain-sides and filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After the frost had fallen the situation was vastly improved, but they all waited the warm weather of spring with anxiety.
On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp the doctor halted the team.
“Where are your stables, Tommy?”
“Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house.”
“Good Lord!” murmured the doctor. “How many men have you here?”
“Between two an' three hundred, wid them that are travellin' the road.”
“What are your sanitary arrangements?”
“What's that?”
“I mean how do you—what are your arrangements for keeping the camp clean, free from dirt and smells? You can't have three hundred men living together without some sanitary arrangements.”
“Begob, it's ivery man fer himsilf. Clane yersilf as ye can through the week, an' on Sundays boil yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near the kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid the crathurs.”
“And is that the bunk-house close up to the cookery?”
“It is that same.”
“And why was it built so close as that?”
“Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the muskeg at the back av it.”
The doctor gave it up. “Drive on,” he said. “But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there on that level.”
“Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane out av it till ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump fallin' through to the antipods,” replied Tom.
“Yes, but up on this flat here, Tommy, under the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the camp.”
“It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set it where it is.”
As they drove into the camp the cook came out with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought of that heap when the sun shone upon it in the mild weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with a large red muffler wrapped round his throat.
“Hello, Yonie!” cried Tommy. “What's afther gittin' ye up so early?”
“It is no sleep for dis,” cried Yonie thickly, pointing to his throat.
The doctor sprang from the sleigh. “Let me look at your throat.”
“It's the docthor, Yonie,” explained Tommy, whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination.
The doctor turned him toward the east, where the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and looked into his throat. “My man, you go right back to bed quick.”
“No, it will not to bed,” replied Yonie. “Big work to-day, boss say. He not like men sick.”
“You hear me,” said the doctor sharply. “You go back to bed. Where's your doctor?”
“He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder,” said Tommy, pointing the way.
“Never mind now. Where are your sick men?”
“De seeck mans?” replied the cook. “She's be hall overe. On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den seeck mans hall aroun'.”
“What? Do they sit around where you are cooking?”
“Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunkhouse she's col.' Poor feller! But she's mak' me beeg troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! dat's what you call lak' one beas'.”
The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found three men huddled over the range, the picture of utter misery. He took down the lantern.
“Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow me to look at your throats, men.”
“Dis de docteur, men,” said the cook.
A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face growing more stern with each examination.
“Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You must keep away from this cook-house or you'll poison the whole camp.”
“Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house would freeze you and the stink of it would make a well man sick.”
“And is there no place else?”
“No. Unless it's the stables,” said another man; “they're not quite so bad.”
“Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. But first let me give you something.” He opened his bag, took out his syringe. “Here, Yonie, we'll begin with you. Roll up your sleeve.” And in three minutes he had given all four an antitoxin injection. “Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way what's his name?”
“Hain,” said the cook, “dat's his nem.”
“Haines,” explained one of the men.
“Dat's what I say,” said the cook indignantly, “Hain.”
The doctor passed out, went toward the office, knocked at the door, and, getting no response, opened it and walked in.
“Be the powers, Narcisse!” cried Tommy, as the cook stood looking after the doctor, “it's little I iver thought I'd pity that baste, but Hivin save him now! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come fer him. An' begob, he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through wid him.”
But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules that the punctilious etiquette of the profession demanded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping heavily in his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was uneasy at the outbreak of sickness in his camp, and more especially was he seized with an anxious foreboding in regard to the sick man who had been sent out the day before. Besides this, the foreman had cursed him for a drunken fool in the presence of the whole camp with such vigour and directness that he had found it necessary to sooth his ruffled feelings with large and frequent doses of stimulant brought into the camp for strictly medical purposes. With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. When fully awake he was aware of a young man with a very pale and very stern face standing over him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began:
“Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in this camp.”
“Who the deuce are you?” replied Haines, staring up at him.
“They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from along the line.”
“Dr. Bailey?” said Haines, sitting up. “Oh, I've heard of you.” His tone indicated a report none too favourable. In fact, it was his special chum and confrere who had been ejected from his position in the Gap camp through Dr. Bailey's vigorous measures.
“You have some very sick men in the camp,” repeated Dr. Bailey, his voice sharp and stern.
“Oh, a little tonsilitis,” replied Haines in an indifferent tone.
“Diphtheria,” said Bailey shortly.
“Diphtheria be hanged!” replied Haines insolently; “I examined them carefully last night.”
“They have diphtheria this morning. I have just taken the liberty of looking into their throats.”
“The deuce you have! I like your impudence! Who sent you in here to interfere with my practice, young man? Where did you get your professional manners?” Dr. Haines was the older man and resented the intrusion of this smooth-faced young stranger, who added to the crime of his youth that of being guilty of a serious breach of professional etiquette.
“I ought to apologize for looking at your patients,” said Dr. Bailey. “I came in thinking I might be of some assistance in dealing with this outbreak of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious to see—”
“Diphtheria!” blurted Haines. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night had it.”
“HAD it?”
“He died an hour after arriving at No. 1.”
“Dead? Cursed fool! He WOULD go against my will.”
“Against your will? Would you let a man in the last stages of diphtheria leave this camp against your will with the company's team?”
“Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted to go himself, and the foreman would have him out.”
“There are at least four men going about the camp—they are now in the cook-house where the breakfast is being prepared—who are suffering from a severe attack of diphtheria.”
“What do you propose? What can I do in this cursed hole?” said Dr. Haines petulantly. “No appliances, no means of isolation, no nurses, nothing. Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. What can I do?”
“Do you ask me?” The scorn in the voice was only too apparent. “Isolate the infected at least.”
Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trembling hand, he poured out a cupful of whiskey from a bottle standing on a convenient shelf. “Isolate? How can I isolate? There's no building in which—”
“Make one.”
“Make one? Young man, do you know what you are talking about? Do you know where you are? Do you know who is running this camp?”
“No. But I do know that these men must be isolated within an hour.”
“Impossible! I tell you it is impossible!”
“Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out from this camp last night would result in the verdict of manslaughter. There was no inquest. There will be on the next man that dies if there is any neglect.”
The seriousness of the situation began to dawn upon Haines. “Well,” he said, “if you think you can isolate them, go ahead. I'll see the foreman.”
“Every minute is precious. I gave those four men antitoxin. Are there others?”
“Don't know,” Haines growled, as with an oath he went out, followed by Dr. Bailey. Just outside the door they met the foreman.
“This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin.” Craigin growled out a salutation. “Dr. Bailey here says these sick men have diphtheria.”
“How does he know?” inquired Craigin shortly.
“He has examined them this morning.”
“Have you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then you don't know they have diphtheria?”
“No,” replied Haines weakly.
“These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, without a doubt, and they ought to be isolated at once.”
“Isolated? How?”
“A separate camp must be built and someone appointed to attend them.”
“A separate camp!” exclaimed Craigin; “I'll see them blanked first! Look here, Haines, let's have no nonsense about this. I'm three weeks, yes, a month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank muskeg is knocking the whole contract endways. We can't spare a single man half a day. And more than that, you go talking diphtheria in this camp and you can't hold the men here an hour. It's all I can do to hold them as it is.” And Craigin went off into an elaborate course of profanity descriptive of the various characteristics of the men in his employ.
“But what is to be done?” asked Haines helplessly.
“Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in the hospital, anyway. It's fine to-day. We'll send every man Jack out to-day.”
“These men can't be moved,” said Dr. Bailey in a quiet voice. “You sent a man out yesterday and he's dead.”
“He was bound to go himself. We didn't send him. Anyway, it's none of YOUR business. Look here, Haines, you know me. I'm not going to have any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and all that blankety blank rot. Dose 'em up good and send 'em out.”
Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of the foreman.
“Mr. Craigin, it would be murder,” said Dr. Bailey, “sure murder. Some of them might get through. Some would be sure to die. The consequences to those responsible—to Dr. Haines, for instance—would be serious. I am quite sure he will never give orders that these men should be moved.”
“He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him do it. Haines will give the orders right enough.” Craigin's laugh was like the growl of a bear. “There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you hear me. Those men are going out to-day, and so are you, you blank, blank interferin' skunk.”
Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. “You may call me what you please just now, Mr. Craigin. Before the day is over you won't have enough names left. For I tell you that these men suffering from diphtheria are going to stay here, and are going to be properly cared for.”
Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced stranger should presume to come into his domain, where his word was wont to run as absolute law, filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were serious issues at stake, and with a supreme effort he controlled the passionate longing to spring upon this upstart and throttle him. He turned sharply to Haines.
“Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out to-day?”
Haines hesitated.
“You understand me, Haines; these men go out or—”
Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of the foreman. A moment more he paused and then surrendered.
“Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so terribly ill. I guess they can go out.”
“Dr. Haines,” said Craigin, “is that your decision?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“All right,” said Craigin, with a triumphant sneer. He turned to Tommy, who was standing near with half a dozen men who had just come out from breakfast. “Here you, Tommy, get a couple of teams ready and all the buffalo robes you need and be ready to start in an hour. Do you hear?”
“I do,” said Tommy, turning slowly away.
“Tommy,” called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear tone, “you took a man out from this camp yesterday. Tell the men here what happened.”
“Sure, they all know it,” said Tommy, who had already told the story of poor Scotty's death and of the doctor's efforts to save him. “An' it's a fine bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av him all the way down, an' not able to swally a taste whin I gave it to him.”
Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. “Here you blank, blank, blank! Do what I tell you! And the rest of you men, what are you gawkin' at here? Get to work!”
The men gave back, and some began to move away. Dr. Bailey walked quickly past Craigin into the midst of the group.
“Men, I want to say something to you.” His voice commanded their instant attention. “There are half a dozen of your comrades in this camp sick with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They ought to be isolated to prevent the spread of the disease, and they ought to be cared for at once. The foreman proposes to send them out. One went out yesterday. He died last night. If these men go out to-day some of them will die, and it will be murder. What do you say? Will you let them go?” A wrathful murmur ran through the crowd, which was being rapidly increased every moment by others coming from breakfast.
“Get to your work, you fellows, or get your time!” shouted Craigin, pouring out oaths. “And you,” turning toward Dr. Bailey, “get out of this camp.”
“I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines,” replied Dr. Bailey. “He has asked my advice, and I am giving it.”
“Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it!”
By this time the men were fully roused. One of them came forward.
“What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” he inquired.
“Are you going to work, McLean?” shouted Craigin furiously. “If not, go and get your time.”
“We're going to talk this matter over a minute, Mr. Craigin,” said McLean quietly. “It's a serious matter. We are all concerned in it, and we'll decide in a few minutes what is to be done.”
“Every man who is not at work in five minutes will get his time,” said Craigin, and he turned away and passed into the office.
“What do you propose should be done, Doctor?” said McLean, ignoring the foreman.
“Build a camp where the sick men can be placed by themselves and where they can be kept from infecting the rest of the camp. Half a day's work of a dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of them will die. Besides, it is almost certain that some more of you have already been infected.”
At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread terror of the disease, were for sending out the sick immediately, but the majority would not listen to this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came again to Dr. Bailey.
“The men want to know if you can guarantee that the disease can be stamped out here if you have a separate camp for an hospital?”
“We can guarantee nothing,” replied Dr. Bailey. “But it is altogether the safer way to fight the disease. And I am of the opinion that we can stamp it out.” The doctor's air and tone of quiet confidence, far more than his words, decided the men's action. In a minute more it was agreed that the sick men should stay and that they would all stand together in carrying out the plan of isolation.
“If he gives any of us time,” said Tommy, “we'll all take it, begob.”
“No, men,” said the doctor, “let's not make trouble. I know Mr. Maclennan slightly, and he's a just man, and he'll do what's fair. Besides, we don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a dozen men—one must be able to cook—and in half a day the work will be finished. I will be personally responsible for everything.”
At this point Craigin came out. “Here's your time, McLean,” he said, thrusting a time check at him.
McLean took it without a word and went over and stood by Dr. Bailey's side.
“Who are coming?” called out McLean.
“All of us,” cried a voice. “Pick out your men, McLean.”
“All right,” said McLean, looking over the crowd.
“I'm wan,” said Tommy, running over to the doctor's side. “I seen him shtand by Scotty whin the lad wus fightin' fer his life, an' if I'm tuk it's him I want beside me.”
One by one McLean called his men, each taking his place beside the doctor, while the rest of the men moved off to work.
“Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for half a day.” said Dr. Bailey.
For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside all regard for consequences, rushed at him, but half a dozen men were in his path before he had taken the second step.
“Hold on, Mr. Craigin,” said McLean, “we want no violence. We're going to do what we think right in this matter, so you may as well make up your mind to it.”
“And Mr. Craigin,” continued the doctor, “we shall need some things out of your stores.”
Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to the office steps. “Your time is waiting you, men. And listen to me. If any man goes near that there storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've got the law and I'll do it, so help me God.” He went into the office and returned in a moment with a Winchester, which he loaded in full view of the men.
“Never mind him, boys,” said the doctor cheerily, “I'm going to have breakfast. Come, Tommy, I want you.”
In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of the storehouse in his hand, to find the men still waiting his orders and Craigin on guard with his Winchester.
“Don't go just yet,” said McLean to the doctor in a low voice, “we'll get round him.”
“Oh, he'll not shoot,” said Dr. Bailey.
“He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. He'll shoot and he'll kill, too.”
For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His men were about him waiting his lead. Craigin with his rifle held them all in check. A moment's thought and his decision was taken. He stepped toward Craigin and said in a clear voice, “Mr. Craigin, these stores are necessary to save these men's lives. I want them and I'm going to take them. Murder me, if you like.”
“Hear me, men.” Craigin's voice was cold and deliberate. “These stores are in my charge. I am an officer of the law. If any man lays his hand on that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God.”
“Hear me, Mr. Craigin,” replied Dr. Bailey. “I'm here in consultation with Dr. Haines, who has turned over this matter to my charge. In a case of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. This whole camp is under his authority. These stores are necessary, and I am going to get them.” He well knew the weak spot in his position, but he counted on Craigin's nerve breaking down. In that, however, he was mistaken. Without haste, but without hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. When three paces from it Craigin's voice arrested him.
“Hold on there! Put your hand on that door and, as God lives, you're a dead man!”
Without a word the doctor turned again toward the door. The men with varying cries rushed toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to the snow, the smoking rifle dropping from his hand.
“Begob, I niver played baseball,” cried Tommy, rushing in and seizing the rifle, “but many's the time I've had the divarsion in the streets av Dublin of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick.”
A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had saved the doctor's life. They carried Craigin into the office and laid him on the bed, the blood streaming from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quickly Dr. Bailey got to work and before Craigin had regained consciousness the wound was sewed up and dressed. Then giving him over to the charge of Haines, Dr. Bailey went about the work he had in hand.
Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men who were discovered to be in various stages of diphtheria were comfortably housed in a roomy building rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, with a small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate in charge. And before night had fallen the process of disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, and cookery was well under way, while all who had been in immediate contact with the infected men had been treated by the doctor with antitoxin as a precautionary measure.
Thus the first day's campaign against death closed with the issue still undecided, but the chances for winning were certainly greater than they had been. What the result would be when Craigin was able to take command again, no one could say. But in the meantime, for the next two days, the work on the dump was prosecuted with all vigour, the men feeling in honour bound to support the doctor in that part of the fight which fell to them.