Doc. Gordon | Page 7

it, and he burst into a peal of laughter.
"Laugh if you want to," said she. "It does not seem to me any laughing
matter to go and get yourself killed by me, and my having that on my
mind my whole life. I think I should go mad." Her voice shook, an
expression of horror came into her blue eyes.
James laughed again. "Very well, then," he said, "to oblige you I won't
get killed."
He, in fact, began to consider that the day was waning, and what a
wild-goose chase it would probably be for him to attempt to follow the
man. So again they walked on until they reached the main street of
Westover.
Westover was a small village, rather smaller than Gresham. They
passed three gin-mills, a church, and a grocery store. Then the girl
stopped at the corner of a side street. "My friend lives on this street,"
said she. "Thank you very much. I don't know what I should have done

if you had not come. Good-by!" She went so quickly that James was
not at all sure that she heard his answering good-by. He thought again
how very handsome she was. Then he began to wonder where she lived,
and how she would get home from her friend's house, if the friend had
a brother who would escort her. He wondered who her friends were to
let a girl like that wander around alone in a State which had not the best
reputation for safety. He entertained the idea of waiting about until she
left her friend's house, then he considered the possible brother, and that
the girl herself might resent it, and he kept on. The western sky was
putting on wonderful tints of cowslip and rose deepening into violet.
He began considering his own future again, relegating the girl to the
background. He must be nearing Alton, he thought. After a three-mile
stretch of farming country, he saw houses again. Lights were gleaming
out in the windows. He heard wheels, and the regular trot of a horse
behind him, then a mud-bespattered buggy passed him, a shabby buggy,
but a strongly built one. The team of horses was going at a good clip.
James stood on one side, but the team and buggy had no sooner passed
than he heard a whoa! and a man's face peered around the buggy wing,
not at James, but at his medicine-case. James could just discern the face,
bearded and shadowy in the gathering gloom. Then a voice came. It
shouted, one word, the expressive patois of the countryside, that word
which may be at once a question and a salute, may express almost any
emotion. "Halloo!" said the voice.
This halloo involved a question, or so James understood it. He
quickened his pace, and came alongside the buggy. The face, more
distinct now, surveyed him, its owner leaning out over the side of the
buggy. "Who are you? Where are you bound?"
James answered the latter question. "I am going to Alton."
"To Doctor Gordon's?"
"Yes."
"Then you are Doctor Elliot?"
"Yes."

"Get in."
James climbed into the buggy. The other man took up the reins, and the
horse resumed his quick trot.
"You didn't come by train?" remarked the man.
"No. You are Doctor Gordon, I suppose?"
"Yes, I am. Why the devil did you walk?"
"To save my money," replied James, laughing. He realized nothing to
be ashamed of in his reply.
"But I thought your father was well-to-do."
"Yes, he is, but we don't ride when it costs money and we can walk. I
knew if I got to Alton by night, it would be soon enough. I like to
walk." James said that last rather defiantly. He began to realize a
certain amazement on the other man's part which might amount to an
imputation upon his father. "I have plenty of money in my pocket," he
added, "but I wanted the walk."
Doctor Gordon laughed. "Oh, well, a walk of twenty-five miles is
nothing to a young fellow like you, of course," he said. "I can
understand that you may like to stretch your legs. But you'll have to
drive if you are ever going to get anywhere when you begin practice
with me."
"I suppose you have calls for miles around?"
"Rather." Doctor Gordon sighed. "It's a dog's life. I suppose you haven't
got that through your head yet?"
"I think it is a glorious profession," returned James, with his haughty
young enthusiasm.
"I wasn't talking about the profession," said the doctor; "I was talking
of the man who has to grind his way through it. It's a dog's life. Neither

your body nor your soul are your own. Oh, well, maybe you'll like it."
"You seem to," remarked James rather pugnaciously.