The Clarion | Page 4

wish my private advice--private, I say, and sacredly confidential--" He
broke off and leaned out over the railing. "Thousands have lived to
bless the name of Professor Certain, and his friendship, at such a crisis;
thousands, my friends. To such, I shall be available for consultation
from nine to twelve to-morrow, at the Moscow Hotel. Remember the
time and place. Men only. Nine to twelve. And all under the inviolable
seal of my profession."
Some quality of unexpressed insistence in the stranger--or was it the
speaker's own uneasiness of spirit?--brought back the roving, brilliant
eyes to the square face below.
"A little blackmail on the side, eh?"
The words were spoken low, but with a peculiar, abrupt crispness. This,
then, was direct challenge. Professor Certain tautened. Should he
accept it, or was it safer to ignore this pestilent disturber? Craft and
anger thrust opposing counsels upon him. But determination of the
issue came from outside.
"Lemme through."
From the outskirts of the crowd a rawboned giant forced his way
inward. He was gaunt and unkempt as a weed in winter.
"Here's trouble," remarked a man at the front. "Allus comes with a
Hardscrabbler."
"What's a Hardscrabbler?" queried the well-dressed man.

"Feller from the Hardscrabble Settlement over on Corsica Lake. Tough
lot, they are. Make their own laws, when they want any; run their place
to suit themselves. Ain't much they ain't up to. Hoss-stealin',
barn-burnin', boot-leggin', an' murder thrown in when--"
"Be you the doctor was to Corsica Village two years ago?" The
newcomer's high, droning voice cut short the explanation.
"I was there, my friend. Testimonials and letters from some of your
leading citizens attest the work--"
"You give my woman morpheean." There was a hideous edged
intonation in the word, like the whine of some plaintive and dangerous
animal.
"My friend!" The Professor's hand went forth in repressive deprecation.
"We physicians give what seems to us best, in these cases."
"A reg'lar doctor from Burnham seen her," pursued the Hardscrabbler,
in the same thin wail, moving nearer, but not again raising his eyes to
the other's face. Instead, his gaze seemed fixed upon the man's shining
expanse of waistcoat. "He said you doped her with the morpheean you
give her."
"So your chickens come home to roost, Professor," said the stranger, in
a half-voice.
"Impossible," declared the Professor, addressing the Hardscrabbler.
"You misunderstood him."
"They took my woman away. They took her to the 'sylum."
Foreboding peril, the people nearest the uncouth visitor had drawn
away. Only the stranger held his ground; more than held it, indeed, for
he edged almost imperceptibly nearer. He had noticed a fleck of red on
the matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into. Also he saw that
the Professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was
intent, recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat.

"She used to cry fer it, my woman. Cry fer the morpheean like a baby."
He sagged a step forward. "She don't haff to cry no more. She's dead."
Whence had the knife leapt, to gleam so viciously in his hand? Almost
as swiftly as it was drawn, the healer had snatched one of the heavy
torch-poles from its socket. Almost, not quite. The fury leapt and struck;
struck for that shining waistcoat, upon which his regard had
concentrated, with an upward lunge, the most surely deadly blow
known to the knife-fighter. Two other movements coincided, to the
instant. From the curtain of cheesecloth the slight form of a boy shot
upward, with brandished arms; and the square-built man reached the
Hardscrabbler's jaw with a powerful and accurate swing. There was a
scream of pain, a roar from the crowd, and an answering bellow from
the quack in midair, for he had launched his formidable bulk over the
rail, to plunge, a crushing weight, upon the would-be murderer, who
lay stunned on the grass. For a moment the avenger ground him, with
knees and fists; then was up and back on the platform. Already the city
man had gained the flooring, and was bending above the child. There
was a sprinkle of blood on the bright, rough boards.
"Oh, my God! Boy-ee! Has he killed you?"
"No: he isn't killed," said the stranger curtly. "Keep the people back.
Lift down that torch."
The Professor wavered on his legs, grasping at the rail for support.
"You are a doctor?" he gasped.
"Yes."
"Can you save him? Any money--"
"Set the torch here."
"Oh, Boyee, Boyee!" The great, dark man had dropped to his knees, his
face a mask of agony.

"Oh, the devil!" said the physician disgustedly. "You're no help. Clear a
way there, some of you, so that I can get him to the hotel." Then, to the
other. "Keep quiet. There's no danger. Only a