The Clarion | Page 5

flesh wound, but he's
fainted."
Carefully he swung the small form to his shoulder, and forced a way
through the crowd, the little girl, who had followed him to the platform,
composedly trotting along in his wake, while the Hardscrabbler,
moaning from the pain of two broken ribs, was led away by a constable.
Some distance behind, the itinerant wallowed like a drunken man,
muttering brilliant bargain offers of good conduct to Almighty God, if
"Boyee" were saved to him.
Once in the little hotel room, the physician went about his business
with swift decisiveness, aided by the mite of a girl, who seemed to
know by instinct where to be and what to do in the way of handling
towels, wash-basin, and the other simple paraphernalia required.
Professor Certain was unceremoniously packed off to the drug store for
bandages. When he returned the patient had recovered consciousness.
"Where's Dad?" he asked eagerly. "Did he hurt Dad?"
"No, Boyee." The big man was at the bedside in two long,
velvety-footed steps. Struck by the extenuation of the final "y" in the
term, the physician for the first time noted a very faint foreign accent,
the merest echo of some alien tongue. "Are you in pain, Boyee?"
"Not very much. It doesn't matter. Why did he want to kill you?"
"Never mind that, now," interrupted the physician. "We'll get that
scratch bound up, and then, young man, you'll go to sleep."
Pallid as a ghost, the itinerant held the little hand during the process of
binding the wound. "Boyee" essayed to smile, at the end, and closed his
eyes.
"Now we can leave him," said the physician. "Poppet, curl up in that
chair and keep watch on our patient while this gentleman and I have a

little talk in the outer room."
With a brisk nod of obedience and comprehension, the elfin girl took
her place, while the two men went out.
"What do I owe you?" asked Professor Certain, as soon as the door had
closed.
"Nothing."
"Oh, that won't do."
"It will have to do."
"Courtesy of the profession? But--"
The other laughed grimly, cutting him short. "So you call yourself an
M.D., do you?"
"Call myself? I am. Regular degree from the Dayton Medical College."
He sleeked down his heavy hair with a complacent hand.
The physician snorted. "A diploma-mill. What did you pay for your
M.D.?"
"One hundred dollars, and it's as good as your four-year P. and S.
course or any other, for my purposes," retorted the other, with
hardihood. "What's more, I'm a member of the American Academy of
Surgeons, with a special diploma from St. Luke's Hospital of Niles,
Michigan, and a certificate of fellowship in the National Medical
Scientific Fraternity. Pleased to meet a brother practitioner." The sneer
was as palpable as it was cynical.
"You've got all the fake trimmings, haven't you? Do those things pay?"
"Do they! Better than your game, I'll bet. Name your own fee, now, and
don't be afraid to make it strong."
"I'm not in regular practice. I'm a naval surgeon on leave. Give your

money to those poor devils you swindled to-night. I don't like the smell
of it."
"Oh, you can't rile me," returned the quack. "I don't blame you regulars
for getting sore when you see us fellows culling out coin from under
your very noses, that you can't touch."
"Cull it, and welcome. But don't try to pass it on to me."
"Well, I'd like to do something for you in return for what you did for
my son."
"Would you? Pay me in words, then, if you will and dare. What is your
Vitalizing Mixture?"
"That's my secret."
"Liquor? Eh?"
"Some."
"Morphine?"
"A little."
"And the rest syrup and coloring matter, I suppose. A fine vitalizer!"
"It gets the money," retorted the other.
"And your soothing, balmy oils for cancer? Arsenious acid, I suppose,
to eat it out?"
"What if it is? As well that as anything else--for cancer."
"Humph! I happened to see a patient you'd treated, two years ago, by
that mild method. It wasn't cancer at all; only a benign tumor. Your
soothing oils burned her breast off, like so much fire. She's dead now."
"Oh, we all make mistakes."

"But we don't all commit murder."
"Rub it in, if you like to. You can't make me mad. Just the same, if it
wasn't for what you've done for Boyee--"
"Well, what about 'Boyee'?" broke in his persecutor quite undisturbed.
"He seems a perfectly decent sort of human integer."
The bold eyes shifted and softened abruptly. "He's the big thing in my
life."
"Bringing him up to the trade, eh?"
"No, damn you!"
"Damn me, if you like. But don't damn him. He seems to be a bit too
good for this