A Doctor of the Old School | Page 4

as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a sheaf,
an' Burnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an' prayin' a' the while, and the
mither greetin' in the corner.
"'Will he never come?' she cries, an' a' heard the soond o' the horse's
feet on the road a mile awa in the frosty air.
"'The Lord be praised!' said Burnbrae, and a' slippit doon the ladder as
the doctor came skelpin' intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his horse's
mooth.
"Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in five meenuts he hed him
on the feedin' board, and wes at his wark--sic wark, neeburs--but he did
it weel. An' ae thing a' thocht rael thochtfu' o' him: he first sent aff the
laddie's mither tae get a bed ready.
"Noo that's feenished, and his constitution 'ill dae the rest," and he

carried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him in
his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he:
'Burnbrae, yir gey lad never tae say 'Collie, will yelick?' for a' hevna
tasted meat for saxteen hoors.'
"It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the
verra look o' him wes victory."
[Illustration: "THE VERRA LOOK O' HIM WES VICTORY"]
Jamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence,
and he expressed the feeling of Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure
save in great straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts.
But this was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a
good bedside manner. A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an
ounce of superfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick
color by constant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning
grey, honest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with
wrist bones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his
salutations across two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the
drawing-room. But what a clever hand it was in an operation, as
delicate as a woman's, and what a kindly voice it was in the humble
room where the shepherd's wife was weeping by her man's bedside. He
was "ill pitten the gither" to begin with, but many of his physical
defects were the penalties of his work, and endeared him to the Glen.
That ugly scar that cut into his right eyebrow and gave him such a
sinister expression, was got one night Jess slipped on the ice and laid
him insensible eight miles from home. His limp marked the big
snowstorm in the fifties, when his horse missed the road in Glen Urtach,
and they rolled together in a drift. MacLure escaped with a broken leg
and the fracture of three ribs, but he never walked like other men again.
He could not swing himself into the saddle without making two
attempts and holding Jess's mane. Neither can you "warstle" through
the peat bogs and snow drifts for forty winters without a touch of
rheumatism. But they were honorable scars, and for such risks of life
men get the Victoria Cross in other fields.
[Illustration: "FOR SUCH RISKS OF LIFE MEN GET THE

VICTORIA CROSS IN OTHER FIELDS"]
MacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which knew
that none had ever done one-tenth as much for it as this ungainly,
twisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face soften at the
sight of MacLure limping to his horse.
Mr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising the
doctor's dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with
amazement. Black he wore once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, and, if
possible, at a funeral; topcoat or waterproof never. His jacket and
waistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off
the wet like a duck's back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan
trousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding boots. His shirt was
grey flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a tie
which he never had, his beard doing instead, and his hat was soft felt of
four colors and seven different shapes. His point of distinction in dress
was the trousers, and they were the subject of unending speculation.
"Some threep that he's worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year,
an' a' mind masel him gettin' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor
palin', and the mend's still veesible.
"Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes a new pair made in
Muirtown aince in the twa year maybe, and keeps them in the garden
till