Starr, of the Desert | Page 2

bought them.
Helen May loved all growing things. He set off briskly in spite of his
aching back, thinking how Helen May would hover over the flowers
rapturously even while she scolded him for his extravagance.
Half an hour later, when he turned to leave the doctor's office, he left
the daffodils lying forgotten on a chair until the doctor called him back
and gave them to him with a keen glance that had in it a good deal of
sympathy.
"You're almost as bad off yourself, old man," he said bluntly. "I want to
watch those kidneys of yours. Come in to-morrow or next day and let
me look you over. Or Sunday will do, if you aren't working then. I don't
like your color. Here, wait a minute. I'll give you a prescription. You'd
better stop and fill it before you go home. Take the first dose before
you eat--and come in Sunday. Man, you don't want to neglect yourself.
You--"
"Then you don't think Hollywood--?" Peter took the daffodils and

began absently crumpling the waxed paper around them. His eyes,
when he looked into the doctor's face, were very wistful and very, very
tired.
"Hollywood!" The doctor snorted. "One lung's already badly affected, I
tell you. What she's got to have is high, dry air--like Arizona or New
Mexico or Colorado. And right out in the open--live like an Injun for a
year or two. Radical change of climate--change of living. Another year
of office work will kill her." He stopped and eyed Peter pityingly.
"Predisposition--and then the grippe--her mother went that way, didn't
she?"
"Yes," Peter replied, flat-toned and patient. "Yes, she went--that way."
"Well, you know what it means. Get her out of here just as quick as
possible, and you'll probably save her. Helen May's a girl worth
saving."
"Yes," Peter replied flatly, as before. "Yes--she's worth saving."
"You bet! Well, you do that. And don't put off coming here Sunday.
And don't forget to fill that prescription and take it till I see you again."
Peter smiled politely, and went down the hall to the elevator, and laid
his finger on the bell, and waited until the steel cage paused to let him
in. He walked out and up Third Street and waited on the corner of Hill
until the car he wanted stopped on the corner to let a few more
passengers squeeze on. Peter found a foothold on the back platform and
something to hang to, and adapted himself to the press of people
around him, protecting as best he could the daffodils with the fine,
green stuff that went with them and that straggled out and away from
the paper. Whenever human eyes met his with a light of recognition,
Peter would smile and bow, and the eyes would smile back. But he
never knew who owned the eyes, or even that he was performing one of
the little courtesies of life.
All he knew was that Helen May was going the way her mother had
gone, and that the only way to prevent her going that way was to take

her to New Mexico or Colorado or Arizona; and she was worth
saving--even the doctor had been struck with her worth; and a
bungalow out against the hills wouldn't do at all, not even with a
sleeping porch and the open-air ride back and forth every day. Radical
change she must have. Arizona or New Mexico or--the moon, which
seemed not much more remote or inaccessible.
When his street was called he edged out to the steps and climbed down,
wondering how the doctor expected a man with Peter's salary to act
upon his advice. "You do that!" said the doctor, and left Peter to
discover, if he could, how it was to be done without money; in other
words, had blandly required Peter to perform a modern miracle.
Helen May was listlessly setting the table when he arrived. He went up
to her for the customary little peck on the cheek which passes for a kiss
among relatives, and Helen May waved him off with a half smile that
was unlike her customary cheerfulness.
"I've quit kissing," she said. "It's unsanitary."
"What did the doctor tell you, Babe? You went to see him, didn't you?"
Peter managed a smile--business policy had made smiling a
habit--while he unwound the paper from around the daffodils.
"Dad, I've told you and told you not to buy flowers! Oh, golly, aren't
they beautiful! But you mustn't. I'm going to get my salary cut, on the
first. They say business doesn't warrant my present plutocratic income.
Five a week less, Bob said it would be. That'll pull the company back to
a profit-sharing basis, of course!"
"Lots of folks are losing their jobs altogether," Peter