Part 17

“I tell you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You have got to think of health. The newspapers are beginning to talk. Why, look at that string of men you met going out. Of course, the great majority of them never should have come in. Hundreds of men are here who never used either shovel or axe. They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or something; they're not fit for their work. All the same, we get blamed. But my theory is that every camp should have an hospital, with three main hospitals along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is filled, overflowing. A young missionary fellow, Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook supported by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine work, too; but it's overflowing. There's a young lady in charge there, a Miss Robertson, and she's a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the fellows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I get sick send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if we had two or three first-class men, with three main hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the health department in first-class condition. The men would stay with us. We'd get altogether better results.”

“That's all right,” said Maclennan, “but where are you to get your first-class men? They come to us with letters from Directors or some big bug or other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that man Haines. He doesn't know his work and he's drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to be different. He certainly knows his work and he never touches whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in great shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some sickness or busy he's all right, but when things get quiet he hits the green table hard. He's a wonder at poker, they say.”

The General Manager pricked up his ears. “Poker, eh? I'll remember that.”

“But this here business is going too far,” continued Maclennan. “I didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to say.”

As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook.

“Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?”

“Good-day, cook,” said Maclennan. “Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin.”

Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, “M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed.”

“Why, what's the matter with him?”

Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de office you see de docteur.”

“Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him.”

“Hain!” said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. “Dat's no docteur for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!”

The smile broadened on Fahey's face. “I say, Maclennan, he's captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure.”

The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He opened the office door and passed into Craigin's private room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put up his hand for silence and backed him out into the office.

“Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan,” he said, “he's asleep and must not be disturbed.”

Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold “How are you,” and introduced him to Mr. Fahey.

“Is Mr. Craigin ill?” inquired Fahey innocently.

“He has met with a slight accident,” replied the doctor. “He is doing well and will be about in a day or two.”

“Accident?” snorted Maclennan; then clearing his throat as for a speech he began in a loud tone, “Dr. Bailey, I must say--”

“Excuse me,” said the doctor, opening the office door and marshalling them outside, “we'd better go somewhere else if we are going to talk. It is important that my patient should be kept perfectly quiet.” The doctor's air was so entirely respectful and at the same time so masterful that Maclennan found himself walking meekly toward the grub-house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his face broader than ever, bringing up the rear. Maclennan caught the smile, but in the face of the doctor's quiet, respectful manner he found it difficult to rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in bluster.

“Upon my word, Dr. Bailey,” he burst forth when once they were inside the grub-house, “it seems to me that you have carried things on with a high hand in this camp. You come in here, a perfect stranger, you head a mutiny, you lay up my foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely no authority from anyone. What in the blank, blank do you mean, anyway?” Maclennan was rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire.

“Mr. Maclennan,” said the doctor quietly, “it is natural you should be angry. Let me give you the facts before you pass your final judgment. A man was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. Diphtheria. I learned there were others suffering here with the same disease. I came in at once to offer assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came to a practical agreement as to what ought to be done. Mr. Craigin objected. There was some trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt.”

“Dr. Bailey,” said the General Manager, “it will save trouble if you will go somewhat fully into the facts. We want an exact statement of what occurred.” The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's attention to the rugged face of the speaker, with its square forehead and bull-dog jaw. He recognized at once that he had to deal with a man of more than ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him an exact statement of all that had happened, beginning with the death of Scotty Anderson.

“That is all, gentlemen,” said the doctor, as he concluded his tale; “I did what I considered was right. Prompt action was necessary. I may have been mistaken, but I think not.”

“Mistaken!” cried Fahey, with a great oath. “I tell you, Maclennan, we've had a close shave. We may, perhaps, explain that one man's death, but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp in the condition in which the doctor says they were, the results would have been not only deplorable as far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us with the public. Why, good heavens above! what a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I am proud to meet you,” continued Fahey, putting out his hand. “You had a most difficult situation to deal with and you handled it like a general.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Maclennan, shaking Dr. Bailey warmly by the hand. “The measures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be done. Go right on, Doctor. When Craigin is on his feet again we'll send him out.”

“Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day or so. But I would suggest that he keep his place. You can't afford to lose a man of his force.”

“Well, well, we'll see, we'll see.”

“Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrangements. Mac will be busy just now and will excuse us.”

The next two hours the General Manager spent in extracting from Dr. Bailey his theories in regard to camp sanitation and the care of the sick. Finding a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, Dr. Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the last few months, had been absorbing his mind.

“These camps are wrongly constructed in the first instance--every one that I have seen. Almost every law of sanitation is ignored. In location, in relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, the treatment of the sick and injured, the whole business reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For instance, take this camp. The only thing that prevents an outbreak of typhoid is the cold weather. In the spring you will have a state of things here that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with a magnificent site five hundred yards away,” pointing to a little plateau further up the hill, clear of underbrush and timbered with great pines. “Then look at the stables where they are. There are no means by which the men can keep themselves or their clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are alive with vermin, and the bunk-house is reeking with all sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could have had a camp here pleasant, safe, clean, and an hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! they might at least have kept the vermin out.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Fahey, “every camp has to have a few of them fellows. Makes the men feel at home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them out.”

“Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll make this camp clean of vermin in two weeks, absolutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay,” continued the doctor. “You would keep your men in good condition, in good heart and spirits. They would do twice the work. They would stay with you. Besides, it would prevent scandal.”

“Scandal?” The General Manager looked up sharply.

“Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to prevent talk, but down the line they are talking some, and if I am not mistaken it will be all over the East in a few weeks.”

The General Manager was thinking hard. “Look here, young man,” he said, with the air of one who has made up his mind, “do you drink?”

“No.”

“Do you gamble?”

“When I've nothing to do.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Fahey, “a little poker doesn't hurt a man now and then. I am going to make you an offer which I hope you will consider favourably. I offer you the position of medical superintendent of this line at a salary of three thousand a year and all expenses. It's not much, but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You needn't answer just now. Think it over. I don't know your credentials, but I don't care.”

For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook and selected a letter. “I didn't think I would ever use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can look at it.”

Mr. Fahey took the letter, glanced through it hurriedly, then read it again with more care.

“You know Sir William?”

“Very slightly. Met him once or twice in London.”

“This is a most unusual letter for him to write. You must have stood very high in the profession in London.”

“I had a fairly good position,” said Dr. Bailey.

“May I ask why you left?”

Dr. Bailey hesitated. “I grew tired of the life--and, besides--well--I wanted to get away from things and people.”

“Pardon my asking,” said Fahey hastily. “It was none of my business. But, Doctor--” here he glanced at the letter again, “Bailey, you say your name is?”

“They called me Bailey when I came in and I let it go.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Fahey quickly, “Bailey let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four thousand. We can't expect a man of your standing for less.”

“Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construction. I wanted to forget. When I saw how things were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my professional work so much. It has kept me busy. I will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the distinct understanding that I am to have my way in everything.”

“By gad! you'll take it, anyway, I imagine,” said Fahey, with a laugh, “so we may as well put it in the contract. In your department you are supreme. If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't see it, we will get it for you.”

On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered they heard Haines' voice saying, “I believe it was a put-up job with Tommy.”

“It's a blank lie!” roared Craigin. “I have it from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. Otherwise I should have killed the best man that ever walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he here attending to his business?”

“Craigin,” he said quietly, “let me look at that. Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better.”

Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and induced him, much against his will, to take some nourishment.

“There now, that's all right. To-morrow you'll be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet.” As he said this he motioned them out of the room. As he was leaving, Craigin called him back.

“I want to see Maclennan,” he said gruffly.

“Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin,” replied the doctor, in soothing tones.

“I want to see him now.”

The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back.

“Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. But for him I might have been a murderer two or three times over, and, God help me! but for that lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here not to lay it up against me.”

“All right, Craigin,” said Maclennan, “I'm glad to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here won't cherish any grudge.”

Without a word the doctor closed the door upon Maclennan, then went to the bedside. “Craigin, you are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend.”

That was all. The two men shook hands and the doctor passed out, leaving Craigin more at peace with himself and with the world than he had been for some days.

XIX

THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK

Soon after Dick's departure for the West, Ben Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone Mill and very soon found himself firmly established as a member of the family there; and so it came that he was present on the occasion of Margaret's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hospital was under consideration. The offer came through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Macdougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for a matron for the new hospital, which had come into existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. “We want as matron,” Dick had written, “a strong, sane woman who knows her work, and is not afraid to tackle anything. She must be cheery in manner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more beautiful she is the better.”

“Cheery in manner and brave in heart?” Mrs. Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. “The very one! She is that and she is all the rest, and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for Mr. Dick.” Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted across her mind at that point. “No, she'll never be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, but--” Not even to herself, however, much less to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 'arriere pensee' in urging the appointment.

With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother; for to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever “Barney's mother.”

“It would be a very fine work,” said Mrs. Boyle, “but oh, lassie! it is a long, long way. And you would be far from all that knew you!”

“Why, Dick is not very far away.”

“Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. And what if anything should happen to you, and no one to care for you?”

The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. She had aged much during the last six years. The sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going from home. And while, in the case of her younger and favourite son, she had without grudging made the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed deep upon her face.

“What's the matter with me goin' along, Miss Margaret?” said Ben, breaking in upon the pause in the conversation. “There's one of the old gang out there. We cawn't 'ave Barney, but you'd do in his place, an' I guess we could make things hump a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to hum. You remember that day down at the 'Old King's' w'en me an' Barney an' Dick--”

“Och! Ben lad,” said Mrs. Boyle, “Margaret will be hearing that story many's the time. But what would you be doing in an hospital?”

“Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants someone to look after her, don't she?”

“Aye, that she does,” remarked Mrs. Boyle, with such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, “Not I! My business is to look after other people.”

But the more the matter was discussed the clearer it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, and further, that she could not do better than take Ben along to “look after her,” as he put it. Hence, before the year had gone, all through the Windermere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to hers was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, Ben Fallows. And indeed, Ben's usefulness was freely acknowledged by both staff and patients; for by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigorous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was especially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of joints and springs so wonderful that he was often heard to lament the clumsiness of the other leg in comparison.

“W'en it comes to legs,” Ben would say, “this 'ere's the machine fer me. It never gits rheumatism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh cawn't freeze it with forty below.”

As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and of his position in the hospital. The institution became to him not simply a thing of personal pride, but an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and to serve her and to guard her became a religion with Ben. In fact, the Glory of the Kuskinook hospital lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which his divinity might exercise her various powers and graces.

It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Maclennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals along the line were already overflowing, and so the doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of an assistant. After a six weeks' doubtful struggle with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and with returning strength revived his invincible love of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the two had become firm friends during the tedious course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender of which he found to be the honour of the hospital and all things and persons associated therewith. As to the matron, Tommy ventured no criticism. He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic devotee than he. And not even to gratify his insatiable desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy venture any liberty with the name of the matron. In regard to the young preacher, however, who seemed to be a somewhat important part of the institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as to the hospital appointments and methods, he never hesitated to champion the superior methods of those down the line.

It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings.

“It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they do.”

“I guess they're all right fer simple cases,” agreed Ben, “but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!”

“Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!”

“Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?” inquired Ben, with fine scorn.

“Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him alive, an' so I will.”

“Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate,” said Ben, with studied, politeness, “that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done,” displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. “But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!”

“Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the railway?”

“I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general,” replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, “but I'm talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle.” Ben's attention to the finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath. “An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire.”

“Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?”

“Well,” said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, “I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere which--”

“Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their hats?”