Part 1 (2/2)

Tom sprang to his feet with the quick, almost catlike agility which, in combination with his thin, rather tall and very wiry frame, had earned for him the nickname of Spider.

”You come along with me,” he said.

”Depends on where you're going,” Joe laughed.

”Say, I'm patrol leader, ain't I?”

”You are, but this isn't the patrol. We aren't under scout discipline to-day.”

”_You_ are,” laughed Tom. ”You're going to do just what I tell you. Come on, now!”

He grabbed Joe by the wrist and brought him to his feet. Joe didn't resist, either, though Tom expected a sc.r.a.p. He came along meekly down the hill, through the wet, fragrant woods. Once on the village street, Spider led the way directly to Mr. Rogers' house, and 'round the house to the studio, and knocked on the door.

The scout master opened it. He was wearing his long artist's ap.r.o.n, and had his big palette, covered with all the colors of the rainbow, thrust over the thumb of his left hand.

”h.e.l.lo, Spider; h.e.l.lo, Joe,” he said. ”What's the trouble? Has the tenderfoot patrol mutinied?”

The boys came in.

”No, sir, but Joe's windpipes have,” said Tom. He quickly told about his chum's cold, and how he got tired now all the time.

”Now, cough for the gentleman, Joe,” he added with a laugh.

Joe laughed, too, which actually did set him to coughing.

But Mr. Rogers didn't laugh. He looked very grave, and began to take off his ap.r.o.n. He washed his hands, put on his coat, and with a short, ”Come, boys,” started down the path.

There was a famous doctor in Southmead who didn't practice in the town at all. His patients came from various parts of the country, to be treated for special diseases, and they lived while there in a sort of hotel-sanitorium. It was said that this doctor, whose name was Meyer, charged twenty dollars a visit. The boys soon realized that Mr. Rogers was headed for his house.

”Say, who does he think I am, John D. Rockefeller?” Joe whispered to Tom.

”Don't you worry,” Tom whispered back. ”He's a friend of old Doc Meyer's, all right. He'll fix it. You trot along.”

They had to wait in the doctor's anteroom some time, as he had a patient in the office. Finally he came out and greeted Mr. Rogers warmly. He was not a native of Southmead, but had come there only two or three years ago from New York, to have his sanitorium in the country, and he had always been so busy that most of the townspeople scarcely knew him. Tom and Joe, while they had seen him, had never spoken with him before. He was a middle-aged Jew, with gold spectacles on his big nose, and large, kindly brown eyes, which grew very keen as he looked at the boys, and seemed to pierce right through them.

The scout master spoke to him a moment, in a low voice, and then he led all three into his office. It wasn't like any doctor's office the scouts had ever been in. It looked more like some sort of a mysterious laboratory, except for the flat-top office desk in the middle, and the strange chair, with wheels and joints, which could evidently be tipped at any angle, or made into a flat surface like an elevated sofa. There was a great X-ray machine, and many other strange devices, and rows of test tubes on a white enameled table, and sinks and sterilizers.

The doctor patted Joe on the head as if he'd been a little boy instead of a first cla.s.s scout sixteen years old, going on seventeen, and large for his age. He sat Joe down in a chair and asked him a lot of questions first, making some notes on a card which he took out of a small filing cabinet that was like a library catalogue case. Then he told him to undress.

Joe stripped to the waist, and stood up while the doctor tapped his shoulders, his chest, his back, and then listened with his ear down both on his chest and back, and finally he took a stethoscope and went over every square inch of surface, front and back, covering his lungs, while he made the patient cough, say ”Ah,” draw in a deep breath, and expel it slowly. Finally he took his temperature, and a sample of sputum.

Meanwhile Tom looked on with a rapidly increasing alarm. He knew a little something about tuberculosis, and realized it was for that he was examining his chum. He knew what a deadly disease it is, too, if it is not caught in time, and he began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach.

He wanted to cry out to the doctor and demand that he tell him at once that old Joe did not have this terrible disease--that he was all right, that it was nothing but a cold. But, of course, he said not a word.

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