"There he is before you," replied a sharp-faced young doctor, pointing to a benevolent looking old gentleman.
"Dr. Turnbull, there's a young feller hurt dreadful out our way.
His leg's broke. Guess he's hurt inside too. And he's a stranger.
His folks are all in Scotland. Guess he's dyin', and I've got--I've got a horse and buggy at the door. I can git you out and back in a jiffy. Say, doctor, I'm all ready to start."
A smile passed over the faces of the group. But Dr. Turnbull had too long experience with desperate cases and with desperate men.
"My dear Sir," he replied, "I cannot go for some hours."
"Doctor, I want you now. I got to have somebody right now."
"A broken leg?" mused the doctor.
"Yes, and hurt inside."
"How did it happen?" said the doctor.
"Eh? I don't know exactly," replied Sam, taken somewhat aback.
"Somethin' fell on him. But he needs you bad."
"I can't go, my man, but we'll find some one. What's his name did you say?"
"His name is Cameron, and he's from Scotland."
"Cameron?" said the sharp-faced young doctor. "What does he look like?"
"Look like?" said Sam in a perplexed voice. "Well, the girls all think he looks pretty good. He's dark complected and he's a mighty smart young feller. Great on jumpin' and runnin'. Say, he's a crackajack. Why, at the Dominion Day picnic! But you must a' heard about him. He's the chap, you know, that won the hundred yards. Plays the pipes and--"
"Plays the pipes?" cried Dr. Turnbull and the young doctor together.
"And his name's Cameron?" continued the young doctor. "I wonder now if--"
"I say, Martin," said Dr. Turnbull, "I think you had better go.
The case may be urgent."
"Cameron!" cried Martin again. "I bet my bat it's-- Here, wait till I get my coat. I'll be with you in a jerk. Have you got a good horse?"
"He's all right," said Sam. "He'll git you there in an hour."
"An hour? How far is it?"
"Twelve miles."
"Great heavens! Come, then, get a move on!" And so it came that within an hour Cameron, opening his eyes, looked up into the face of his friend.
"Martin! By Jove!" he said, and closed his eyes again. "Martin!" he said again, looking upon the familiar face. "Say, old boy, is this a dream? I seem to be having lots of them."
"It's no dream, old chap, but what in the mischief is the matter?
What does all this fever mean? Let's look at you."
A brief examination was enough to show the doctor that a broken leg was the least of Cameron's trouble. A hasty investigation of the resources of the farm house determined the doctor's course.
"This man has typhoid fever, a bad case too," he said to Mandy.
"We will take him in to the hospital."
"The hospital?" cried Mandy fiercely. "Will you, then?"
"He will be a lot of trouble to you," said the doctor.
"Trouble? Trouble? What are you talkin' about?"
"We're awful busy, Mandy," interposed the mother, who had been roused from her bed.
"Oh, shucks, mother! Oh, don't send him away," she pleaded. "I can nurse him, just as easy." She paused, with quivering lips.
"It will be much better for the patient to be in the hospital. He will get constant and systematic care. He will be under my own observation every hour. I assure you it will be better for him," said the doctor.
"Better for him?" echoed Mandy in a faint voice. "Well, let him go."
In less than an hour's time, such was Dr. Martin's energetic promptness, he had his patient comfortably placed in the democrat on an improvised stretcher and on his way to the city hospital.
And thus it came about that the problem of his leave-taking, which had vexed Cameron for so many days, was solved.
