Dr. Wright's telephone
rang early next morning. The doctor was
prompt to respond. His practice had not yet reached the stage that
rendered the telephone a burden. His young wife stood beside him,
listening with eager hope in her wide-open brown eyes.
"Yes," said the doctor.
"Oh, it's you. Delighted to hear your
ring." "No, not so terribly. The rush doesn't begin till later in
the day." "Not at all. What can I do for you?" "Certainly,
delighted." "What? Right away?" "Well, say within an hour."
"Who is it?" asked his
wife, as the doctor hung up the phone. "A
new family?"
"No such luck," replied
the doctor. "This has been a frightfully
healthy season. But the spring promises a very satisfactory
typhoid epidemic."
"Who is it?" said his
wife again, impatiently.
"Your friend Mrs.
French, inviting me to an expedition into the
foreign colony."
"Oh!" She could not
keep the disappointment out of her tone. "I
think Mrs. French might call some of the other doctors."
"So she does, lots of
them. And most of them stand ready to obey
her call."
"Well," said the little
woman at his side, "I think you are going
too much among those awful people."
"Awful people?"
exclaimed the doctor. "It's awfully good practice,
I know. That is, in certain lines. I can't say there is very much
variety. When a really good thing occurs, it is whisked off to the
hospital and the big guns get it."
"Well, I don't like
your going so much," persisted his wife. "Some
day you will get hurt."
"Hurt?" exclaimed the
doctor. "Me?"
"Oh, I know you think
nothing can hurt you. But a bullet or a
knife can do for you as well as for any one else. Supposing that
terrible man--what's his name?--Kalmar--had struck you instead of
the Polak, where would you be?"
"The question is, where
would he be?" said the doctor with a smile.
"As for Kalmar, he's not too bad a sort; at least there are others
a little worse. I shouldn't be surprised if that fellow Rosenblatt
got only a little less than he deserved. Certainly O'Hara let in
some light upon his moral ulcers."
"Well, I wish you would
drop them, anyway," continued his wife.
"No, you don't," said
the doctor. "You know quite well that you
would root me out of bed any hour of the night to see any of their
kiddies that happened to have a pain in their little tumtums.
Between you and Mrs. French I haven't a moment to devote to my
large and growing practice."
"What does she want
now?" It must be confessed that her tone was
slightly impatient.
"Mrs. French has
succeeded in getting the excellent Mrs. Blazowski
to promise for the tenth time, I believe, to allow some one,
preferably myself, to take her eczematic children to the hospital."
"Well, she won't."
"I think it is
altogether likely. But why do you think so?"
"Because you have tried
before."
"Never."
"Well, Mrs. French has,
and you were with her."
"That is correct. But
to-day I shall adopt new tactics. Mrs.
French's flank movements have broken down. I shall carry the
position with a straight frontal attack. And I shall succeed.
If not, my dear, that little fur tippet thing which you have so
resolutely refused to let your eyes rest upon as we pass the
Hudson's Bay, is yours."
"I don't want it a
bit," said his wife. "And you know we can't
afford it."
"Don't you worry,
little girl," said the doctor cheerfully,
"practice is looking up. My name is getting into the papers. A
few more foreign weddings with attendant killings and I shall be
famous."
At the Blazowski shack
Mrs. French was waiting the doctor, and in
despair. A crowd of children appeared to fill the shack and
overflow through the door into the sunny space outside, on the
sheltered side of the house.
The doctor made his way
through them and passed into the evil-
smelling, filthy room. For Mrs. Blazowski found it a task beyond
her ability to perform the domestic duties attaching to the care of
seven children and a like number of boarders in her single room.
Mrs. French was seated on a stool with a little child of three
years upon her knee.
"Doctor, don't you
think that these children ought to go to the
hospital to-day?" she said, as the doctor entered.
"Why, sure thing; they
must go. Let's look at them."
He tried to take the
little child from Mrs. French's knee, but the
little one vehemently objected.
"Well, let's look at
you, anyway," said the doctor, proceeding to
unwind some filthy rags from the little one's head. "Great Scott!"
he exclaimed in a low voice, "this is truly awful!"
The hair was matted
with festering scabs. The ears, the eyes, the
fingers were full of running sores.
"I had no idea this
thing had gone so far," he said in a horrified
voice.
"What is it?" said Mrs.
French. "Is it--"
"No, not itch. It is
the industrious and persevering eczema
pusculosum, known to the laity as salt rheum of the domestic
variety."
"It has certainly got
worse this last week," said Mrs. French.
"Well, this can't go on
another day, and I can't treat her here.
She must go. Tell your mother," said the doctor in a decided tone
to a little girl of thirteen who stood near.
Mrs. Blazowski threw up
her hands with voluble protestation. "She
says they will not go. She put grease on and make them all right."
"Grease!" exclaimed the
doctor. "I should say so, and a good many
other things too! Why, the girl's head is alive with them!
Heavens above!" said the doctor, turning to Mrs. French, "she's
running over with vermin! Let's see the other."
He turned to a girl of
five, whose head and face were even more
seriously affected with the dread disease.
"Why, bless my soul!
This girl will lose her eyesight! Now look
here, these children must go to the hospital, and must go now.
Tell your mother what I say."
Again the little girl
translated, and again the mother made
emphatic reply.
"What does she say?"
"She say she not let
them go. She fix them herself. Fix them all
right."
"Perhaps we better
wait, Doctor," interposed Mrs. French. "I'll
talk to her and we'll try another day."
"No," said the doctor,
catching up a shawl and wrapping around the
little girl, "she's going with me now. There will be a scrap, and
you will have to get in. I'll back you up."
As the doctor caught up
the little child, the mother shouted, "No,
no! Not go!"
"I say yes," said the
doctor; "I'll get a policeman and put you all
in prison. Tell her."
The threat made no
impression upon the mother. On the contrary, as
the doctor moved toward the door she seized a large carving-knife
and threw herself before him. For a moment or two they stood
facing each other, the doctor uncertain what his next move should
be, but determined that his plan should not fail this time. It was
Mrs. French who interposed. With a smile she laid her hand upon
the mother's arm.
"Tell her," she said to
the little girl, "that I will go with the
children, and I promise that no hurt shall come to them. And I
will bring them back again safe. Your mother can come and see them
to-morrow--to-day. The hospital is a lovely place. They will have
nice toys, dolls, and nice things to eat, and we'll make them
better."
Rapidly, almost
breathlessly, and with an eager smile on her
sweet face, Mrs. French went on to describe the advantages and
attractions of the hospital, pausing only to allow the little girl
to translate.
At length the mother
relented, her face softened. She stepped from
the door, laying down her knife upon the table, moved not by the
glowing picture of Mrs. French's words, but by the touch upon her
arm and the face that smiled into hers. Once more the mother
spoke.
"Will you go too?"
interpreted the little girl.
"Yes, surely. I go
too," she replied.
This brought the
mother's final surrender. She seized Mrs.
French's hand, and bursting into loud weeping, kissed it again and
again. Mrs. French put her arms around the weeping woman, and
unshrinking, kissed the tear-stained, dirty face. Dr. Wright
looked on in admiring silence.
"You are a dead sport,"
he said. "I can't play up to that; but you
excite my ambition. Get a shawl around the other kiddie and come
along, or I'll find myself kissing the bunch."
Once more he started
toward the door, but the mother was before
him, talking and gesticulating.
"What's the row now?"
said the doctor, turning to the little
interpreter.
"She says she must
dress them, make them clean."
"It's a big order,"
said the doctor, "but I submit."
With great energy Mrs.
Blazowski proceeded to prepare her children
for their momentous venture into the world. The washing process
was simple enough. From the dish-pan which stood upon the hearth
half full of dirty water and some of the breakfast dishes, she took
a greasy dish-cloth, wrung it out carefully, and with it proceeded
to wash, not untenderly, the festering heads, faces and fingers of
her children, resorting from time to time to the dishpan for a
fresh supply of water. This done, she carefully dried the parts
thus diligently washed with the handkerchief which she usually wore
about her head. Then pinning shawls about their heads, she had
her children ready for their departure, and gave them into Mrs.
French's charge, sobbing aloud as if she might never see them more.
"Well," said the
doctor, as he drove rapidly away, "we're well out
of that. I was just figuring what sort of hold would be most fatal
to the old lady when you interposed."
"Poor thing!" said Mrs.
French. "They're very fond of their
children, these Galicians, and they're so suspicious of us. They
don't know any better."
As they passed
Paulina's house, the little girl Irma ran out from
the door.
"My mother want you
very bad," she said to Mrs. French.
Tell her I'll come in
this afternoon," said Mrs. French.
"She want you now,"
replied Irma, with such a look of anxiety upon
her face that Mrs. French was constrained to say, "Wait one moment,
Doctor. I'll see what it is. I shall not keep you."
She ran into the house,
followed by the little girl. The room was
full of men who stood about in stolid but not unsympathetic
silence, gazing upon Paulina, who appeared to be prostrated with
grief. Beside her stood the lad Kalman, the picture of desolation.
"What is it?" cried
Mrs. French, running to her. "Tell me what is
the matter."
Irma told the story.
Early that morning they had gone to the jail,
but after waiting for hours they were refused admission by the
guard.
"A very cross man send
us away," said the girl. "He say he put us
in jail too. We can see our fadder no more."
Her words were followed
by a new outburst of grief on the part of
Paulina and the two children.
"But the Judge said you
were to see him," said Mrs. French in
surprise. "Wait for me," she added.
She ran out and told
the doctor in indignant words what had taken
place, a red spot glowing in each white cheek.
"Isn't it a shame?" she
cried when she had finished her story.
"Oh, it's something
about prison rules and regulations, I guess,"
said the doctor.
"Prison rules!"
exclaimed Mrs. French with wrath rare in her.
"I'll go straight to the Judge myself."
"Get in," said the
doctor, taking up the lines.
"Where are you going?
We can't leave these poor things in this
way," the tears gathering in her eyes and her voice beginning to
break.
"Not much," said the
doctor briskly; "we are evidently in for
another scrap. I don't know where you will land me finally, but
I'm game to follow your lead. We'll go to the jail."
Mrs. French considered
a moment. "Let us first take these children
to the hospital and then we shall meet Paulina at the jail."
"All right," said the
doctor, "tell them so. I am at your
service."
"You are awfully good,
Doctor," said the little lady, her sweet
smile once more finding its way to her pale face.
"Ain't I, though?" said
the doctor. "If the spring were a little
further advanced you'd see my wings sprouting. I enjoy this. I
haven't had such fun since my last football match. I see the
finish of that jail guard. Come on."
Within an hour the
doctor and Mrs. French drove up to the jail.
There, at the bleak north door, swept by the chill March wind, and
away from the genial light of the shining sun, they found Paulina
and her children, a shivering, timid, shrinking group, looking
pathetically strange and forlorn in their quaint Galician garb.
The pathos of the
picture appeared to strike both the doctor and
his friend at the same time.
"Brute!" said the
doctor, "it's some beast of an understrapper. He
might have let them in, anyway. I'll see the head turnkey."
"Isn't it terribly
sad?" replied Mrs. French.
The doctor rang the
bell at the jail door, prepared for battle.
"I want to see Mr.
Cowan."
The guard glanced past
the doctor, saw the shrinking group behind
him and gruffly announced, "This, is not the hour for visitors."
"I want to see Mr.
Cowan," repeated the doctor slowly, looking the
guard steadily in the eye. "Is he in?"
"Come in," said the
guard sullenly, allowing the doctor and his
friend to enter, and shutting the door in the faces of the
Galicians.
In a few moments Mr.
Cowan appeared, a tall athletic man, kindly of
face and of manner. He greeted Mrs. French and the doctor warmly.
"Come into the office,"
he said; "come in."
"Mr. Cowan," said Mrs.
French, "there is a poor Galician woman and
her children outside the door, the wife and children of the man who
was condemned yesterday. The Judge told them they could see the
prisoner to-day."
"The hour for
visitors," said Mr. Cowan, "is three in the afternoon."
"Could you not let her
in now? She has already waited for hours at
the door this morning, and on being refused went home broken-
hearted. She does not understand our ways and is very timid. I
wish you could let her in now while I am here."
Mr. Cowan hesitated. "I
should greatly like to oblige you, Mrs.
French. You know that. Sit down, and I will see. Let that woman
and her children in," he said to the guard.
The guard went sullenly
to the door, followed by Mrs. French.
"Come in here," he said
in a gruff voice.
Mrs. French hurried
past him, took Paulina by the arm, and saying,
"Come in and sit down," led her to a bench and sat beside her.
"It's all right," she whispered. "I am sure you can see your
husband. Tell her," she said to Irma.
In a short time Mr.
Cowan came back.
"They may see him," he
said. "It is against all discipline, but it
is pretty hard to resist Mrs. French," he continued, turning to the
doctor.
"It is quite useless
trying!" said the doctor; "I have long ago
discovered that."
"Come," said that
little lady leading Paulina to the door of the
cell.
The guard turned the
lock, shot back the bolts, opened the door and
motioning with his hand, said gruffly to Paulina, "Go in."
The woman looked into
the cell in shrinking fear.
"Go on," said Mrs.
French in an encouraging voice, patting her on
the shoulder, "I will wait here."
Clinging to one
another, the woman and children passed in through
the door which the guard closed behind them with a reverberating
clang. Mrs. French sat on the bench outside, her face cast down,
her eyes closed. Now and then through the grating of the door rose
and fell a sound of voices mingled with that of sobs and weeping,
hearing which, Mrs. French covered her face with her hands, while
the tears trickled down through her fingers.
As she sat there, the
door-bell rang and two Galician men appeared,
seeking admission.
"We come to see
Kalmar," said one of them.
Mrs. French came
eagerly forward. "Oh, let them come in, please.
They are friends of the prisoner. I know them."
Without a word the
guard turned from her, strode to the office
where Mr. Cowan sat in conversation with the doctor, and in a few
moments returned with permission for the men to enter.
"Sit down there," he
said, pointing to a bench on the opposite side
of the door from that on which Mrs. French was sitting.
Before many minutes had
elapsed, the prisoner appeared at the door
of his cell with Paulina and his children.
"Would you kindly open
the door?" he said in a courteous tone to
the guard. "They wish to depart."
The guard went toward
the door, followed by Mrs. French, who stood
waiting with hands outstretched toward the weeping Paulina. As the
door swung open, the children came forth, but upon the threshold
Paulina paused, glanced into the cell, ran back and throwing
herself at the prisoner's feet, seized his hand and kissed it again
and again with loud weeping.
For a single instant
the man yielded her his hand, and then in a
voice stern but not unkind, he said, "Go. My children are in your
keeping. Be faithful."
At once the woman rose
and came back to the door where Mrs. French
stood waiting for her.
As they passed on, the
guard turned to the men and said briefly,
"Come."
As they were about to
enter the cell, the boy suddenly left
Paulina's side, ran to Simon Ketzel and clutching firm hold of his
hand said, "Let me go with you."
"Go back," said the
guard, but the boy still clung to Ketzel's
hand.
"Oh, let him go," said
Mrs. French. "He will do no harm." And the
guard gave grudging permission.
With a respectful,
almost reverential mien, the men entered the
cell, knelt before the prisoner and kissed his hand. The moments
were precious and there was much to say and do, so Kalmar lost no
time.
"I have sent for you,"
he said, "first to give you my report which
you will send back to headquarters."
Over and over again he
repeated the words of his report, till he
was certain that they had it in sure possession.
"This must go at once,"
he said.
"At once," replied
Simon.
"In a few weeks or
months," continued the prisoner in a low voice,
"I expect to be free. Siberia could not hold me, and do you think
that any prison in this country can? But this report must go
immediately."
"Immediately," said
Simon again.
"Now," said Kalmar
solemnly, "there is one thing more. Our cause
fails chiefly because of traitors. In this city is a traitor. My
oath demands his death or mine. If I fail, I must pass the work
on to another. It is for this I have called you here. You are
members of our Brotherhood. What do you say?"
The men stood silent.
"Speak!" said Kalmar in
a low stern voice. "Have you no words?"
But still they stood
silent and distressed, looking at each other.
"Tell me," said Kalmar,
"do you refuse the path?"
"Master," said Joseph
Pinkas sullenly, "this is a new country. All
that we left behind. That is all well for Russia, but not for
Canada. Here we do not take oath to kill."
"Swine!" hissed Kalmar
with unutterable scorn. "Why are you here?
Go from me!"
From his outstretched
hand Joseph fell back in sudden fear. Kalmar
strode to the door and rattled it in its lock.
"This man wishes to
go," he said, as the guard appeared. "Let him
go."
"What about the
others?" said the guard.
"Permit them to remain
for a few moments," said Kalmar, recovering
the even tone of his voice with a tremendous effort.
"Now, Simon Ketzel," he
said, turning back to the man who stood
waiting him in fear, "what is your answer?"
Simon took his hand and
kissed it. "I will serve you with my
money, with my life. I am all Russian here," smiting on his
breast, "I cannot forget my countrymen in bondage. I will help
them to freedom."
"Ah," said Kalmar,
"good. Now listen. This Rosenblatt betrayed
us, brought death and exile to many of our brothers and sisters.
He still lives. He ought to die. What do you say?"
"He ought to die,"
answered Simon.
"The oath is laid upon
me. I sought the privilege of executing
vengeance; it was granted me. I expect to fulfil my oath, but I
may fail. If I fail," here he bent his face toward that of Simon
Ketzel, his bloodshot eyes glowing in his white face like red
coals, "if I fail," he repeated, "is he still to live?"
"Do you ask me to kill
him?" said Simon in a low voice. "I have a
wife and three children. If I kill this man I must leave them.
There is no place for me in this country. There is no escape. I
must lay upon my children that burden forever. Do you ask me to do
this? Surely God will bring His seward, to isolation
from all that makes life dear, to deprivation of the freedom of
God's sweet light and air, to degradation without hope of recovery.
Before him stretched fourteen long years of slow agony, with cruel
abundance of leisure to feed his soul with maddening memories of
defeated vengeance, with fearful anxieties for the future of those
dear as life, with feelings of despair over a cause for which he
had sacrificed his all. |