Part 4 (1/2)
”My name is Flint, and I sent for you to give me a dose of morphine.”
”My name, sir, is Cricket, and I'm d.a.m.ned if I do any such thing.”
”Why did they send for you then?”
”They sent for me to see what I thought you needed--not to take your orders for a drug. I am not an apothecary.”
”More's the pity!” returned Flint, flouncing across to the inner side of the bed, and turning his back unceremoniously upon his visitor.
Dr. Cricket received this demonstration with unconcern. He took out his thermometer and shook it against his wrist. Then resting one knee on the bed he thrust the thermometer into his recalcitrant patient's mouth, saying: ”Don't crunch on it, unless you want your mouth full of gla.s.s, and your belly full of mercury. Now for the pulse. Ah! too fast--I expected as much.”
He took out the thermometer and held it to the light. ”Over one hundred--see here, young man, it's well you sent for me when you did.”
”I wish I hadn't.”
”So do I, from a professional point of view. Nothing so good for doctors' business as delay in sending for us. As it is, I fear I can't conscientiously make more than two calls, or keep you in bed after to-morrow.”
”But what are you going to do for this accursed pain in the head?”
”Oh, that's of no consequence--only a symptom. It's the fever that worries me.”
”Oh, it is--is it? Well, it is the pain that worries me, and if you don't do something about it, I'll fire your old bottles out of the window.”
”Very good. Then I will send back to Mrs. White's for more bottles and a straight-jacket to boot--”
”So you live at Mrs. White's, do you?”
”No, sir, I do not _live_ anywhere in summer--I board.”
The doctor chuckled over his little joke as genially as if it had never seen the light before; but humor does not appeal to a man with a headache, and antique humor least of all.
”That's where Miss Fred and that freckled-faced brother of hers stay--isn't it?” Flint continued.
”Ah, do you know the Anstices?”
”Not I--that is, I never saw the young woman till yesterday; but to the best of my belief she is not human at all, only an evil genius of the region who goes about with incantations which cause fis.h.i.+ng-rods to break at the end, and boats to run onto rocks.”
”So--ho! You were the skipper of 'The Aquidneck,' were you? Well, well! no wonder you're laid up with a chill. We nearly burst our blood-vessels, laughing over Miss Fred's account of you, rising up like a ghost out of the eel-gra.s.s, and the topmast of your boat sticking up out of the water like a dead man's finger.”
Dr. Cricket's little black eyes twinkled with enjoyment as he recalled the scene. The misguided man fancied he was helping to take his patient's thoughts off himself, and, having measured out his powders and potions, he took his departure, leaving Flint inwardly raging.
To be made the b.u.t.t of a boarding-house table! Really it was too much; and this girl, of whom he had begun to think rather well--this girl doubtless mimicked his disconsolate tones and his chattering teeth, and made all manner of fun of his sorry plight.
Folk with a headache see life quite out of focus; and at the moment it really would have been a comfort to Flint to know that this mocking maid had been drowned, or struck by lightning, or in any fas.h.i.+on disabled from repeating the story of his discomfiture. He writhed and twisted, and at last fell asleep, still alternately vowing never to forgive, and never to give her another thought.
In the morning when he woke, free from pain and, except for a certain languor, quite himself again, he wondered at his childishness of the night before, though in spite of reason a certain sub-conscious resentment lingered still.
At seven o'clock Matilda Marsden knocked at his door and gave warning that the breakfast-hour drew near.
”I say,” he called in response, ”will you please send some one with a pitcher of hot water? I'll have my breakfast in bed.”