CHAPTER XIX
"I'll see you again," Harry Del Mar told Daughtry, at the end of hisfourth conversation on the matter of Michael's sale.
Wherein Harry Del Mar was mistaken. He never saw Daughtry again, becauseDaughtry saw Doctor Emory first.
Kwaque's increasing restlessness at night, due to the swelling under hisright arm-pit, had began to wake Daughtry up. After several suchexperiences, he had investigated and decided that Kwaque was sufficientlysick to require a doctor. For which reason, one morning at eleven,taking Kwaque along, he called at Walter Merritt Emory's office andwaited his turn in the crowded reception-room.
"I think he's got cancer, Doc.," Daughtry said, while Kwaque was pullingoff his shirt and undershirt. "He never squealed, you know, neverpeeped. That's the way of niggers. I didn't find our till he got towakin' me up nights with his tossin' about an' groanin' in hissleep.--There! What'd you call it? Cancer or tumour--no two ways aboutit, eh?"
But the quick eye of Walter Merritt Emory had not missed, in passing, thetwisted fingers of Kwaque's left hand. Not only was his eye quick, butit was a "leper eye." A volunteer surgeon in the first days out in thePhilippines, he had made a particular study of leprosy, and had observedso many lepers that infallibly, except in the incipient beginnings of thedisease, he could pick out a leper at a glance. From the twistedfingers, which was the anaesthetic form, produced bynerve-disintegration, to the corrugated lion forehead (again anaesthetic),his eyes flashed to the swelling under the right arm-pit and his braindiagnosed it as the tubercular form.
Just as swiftly flashed through his brain two thoughts: the first, theaxiom, _whenever and wherever you find a leper, look for the otherleper_; the second, the desired Irish terrier, who was owned by Daughtry,with whom Kwaque had been long associated. And here all swiftness of eye-flashing ceased on the part of Walter Merritt Emory. He did not know howmuch, if anything, the steward knew about leprosy, and he did not care toarouse any suspicions. Casually drawing his watch to see the time, heturned and addressed Daughtry.
"I should say his blood is out of order. He's run down. He's not usedto the recent life he's been living, nor to the food. To make certain, Ishall examine for cancer and tumour, although there's little chance ofanything like that."
And as he talked, with just a waver for a moment, his gaze lifted aboveDaughtry's eyes to the area of forehead just above and between the eyes.It was sufficient. His "leper-eye" had seen the "lion" mark of theleper.
"You're run down yourself," he continued smoothly. "You're not up tosnuff, I'll wager. Eh?"
"Can't say that I am," Daughtry agreed. "I guess I got to get back tothe sea an' the tropics and warm the rheumatics outa me."
"Where?" queried Doctor Emory, almost absently, so well did he feign it,as if apparently on the verge of returning to a closer examination, ofKwaque's swelling.
Daughtry extended his left hand, with a little wiggle of the littlefinger advertising the seat of the affliction. Walter Merritt Emory saw,with seeming careless look out from under careless-drooping eyelids, thelittle finger slightly swollen, slightly twisted, with a smooth, almostshiny, silkiness of skin-texture. Again, in the course of turning tolook at Kwaque, his eyes rested an instant on the lion-lines ofDaughtry's brow.
"Rheumatism is still the great mystery," Doctor Emory said, returning toDaughtry as if deflected by the thought. "It's almost individual, thereare so many varieties of it. Each man has a kind of his own. Anynumbness?"
Daughtry laboriously wiggled his little finger.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "It ain't as lively as it used to was."
"Ah," Walter Merritt Emory murmured, with a vastitude of confidence andassurance. "Please sit down in that chair there. Maybe I won't be ableto cure you, but I promise you I can direct you to the best place to livefor what's the matter with you.--Miss Judson!"
And while the trained-nurse-apparelled young woman seated Dag Daughtry inthe enamelled surgeon's chair and leaned him back under direction, andwhile Doctor Emory dipped his finger-tips into the strongest antiseptichis office possessed, behind Doctor Emory's eyes, in the midst of hisbrain, burned the image of a desired Irish terrier who did turns insailor-town cabarets, was rough-coated, and answered to the full name ofKilleny Boy.
"You've got rheumatism in more places than your little finger," heassured Daughtry. "There's a touch right here, I'll wager, on yourforehead. One moment, please. Move if I hurt you, Otherwise sit still,because I don't intend to hurt you. I merely want to see if my diagnosisis correct.--There, that's it. Move when you feel anything. Rheumatismhas strange freaks.--Watch this, Miss Judson, and I'll wager this form ofrheumatism is new to you. See. He does not resent. He thinks I havenot begun yet . . . "
And as he talked, steadily, interestingly, he was doing what Dag Daughtrynever dreamed he was doing, and what made Kwaque, looking on, almostdream he was seeing because of the unrealness and impossibleness of it.For, with a large needle, Doctor Emory was probing the dark spot in themidst of the vertical lion-lines. Nor did he merely probe the area.Thrusting into it from one side, under the skin and parallel to it, heburied the length of the needle from sight through the insensateinfiltration. This Kwaque beheld with bulging eyes; for his masterbetrayed no sign that the thing was being done.
"Why don't you begin?" Dag Daughtry questioned impatiently. "Besides, myrheumatism don't count. It's the nigger-boy's swelling."
"You need a course of treatment," Doctor Emory assured him. "Rheumatismis a tough proposition. It should never be let grow chronic. I'll fixup a course of treatment for you. Now, if you'll get out of the chair,we'll look at your black servant."
But first, before Kwaque was leaned back, Doctor Emory threw over thechair a sheet that smelled of having been roasted almost to the scorchingpoint. As he was about to examine Kwaque, he looked with a slight startof recollection at his watch. When he saw the time he startled more, andturned a reproachful face upon his assistant.
"Miss Judson," he said, coldly emphatic, "you have failed me. Here itis, twenty before twelve, and you knew I was to confer with Doctor Hadleyover that case at eleven-thirty sharp. How he must be cursing me! Youknow how peevish he is."
Miss Judson nodded, with a perfect expression of contrition and humility,as if she knew all about it, although, in reality, she knew only allabout her employer and had never heard till that moment of his engagementat eleven-thirty.
"Doctor Hadley's just across the hall," Doctor Emory explained toDaughtry. "It won't take me five minutes. He and I have a disagreement.He has diagnosed the case as chronic appendicitis and wants to operate. Ihave diagnosed it as pyorrhea which has infected the stomach from themouth, and have suggested emetine treatment of the mouth as a cure forthe stomach disorder. Of course, you don't understand, but the point isthat I've persuaded Doctor Hadley to bring in Doctor Granville, who is adentist and a pyorrhea expert. And they're all waiting for me these tenminutes! I must run.
"I'll return inside five minutes," he called back as the door to the hallwas closing upon him.--"Miss Judson, please tell those people in thereception-room to be patient."
He did enter Doctor Hadley's office, although no sufferer from pyorrheaor appendicitis awaited him. Instead, he used the telephone for twocalls: one to the president of the board of health; the other to thechief of police. Fortunately, he caught both at their offices,addressing them familiarly by their first names and talking to them mostemphatically and confidentially.
Back in his own quarters, he was patently elated.
"I told him so," he assured Miss Judson, but embracing Daughtry in thehappy confidence. "Doctor Granville backed me up. Straight pyorrhea, ofcourse. That knocks the operation. And right now they're jolting hisgums and the pus-sacs with emetine. Whew! A fellow likes to be right. Ideserve a smoke. Do you mind, Mr. Daughtry?"
And while the steward shook his head, Doctor Emory lighted a big Havanaand continued audibly to luxuriate in his fictitious
triumph over theother doctor. As he talked, he forgot to smoke, and, leaning quitecasually against the chair, with arrant carelessness allowed the livecoal at the end of his cigar to rest against the tip of one of Kwaque'stwisted fingers. A privy wink to Miss Judson, who was the only one whoobserved his action, warned her against anything that might happen.
"You know, Mr. Daughtry," Walter Merritt Emory went on enthusiastically,while he held the steward's eyes with his and while all the time the liveend of the cigar continued to rest against Kwaque's finger, "the older Iget the more convinced I am that there are too many ill-advised and hastyoperations."
Still fire and flesh pressed together, and a tiny spiral of smoke beganto arise from Kwaque's finger-end that was different in colour from thesmoke of a cigar-end.
"Now take that patient of Doctor Hadley's. I've saved him, not merelythe risk of an operation for appendicitis, but the cost of it, and thehospital expenses. I shall charge him nothing for what I did. Hadley'scharge will be merely nominal. Doctor Granville, at the outside, willcure his pyorrhea with emetine for no more than a paltry fifty dollars.Yes, by George, besides the risk to his life, and the discomfort, I'vesaved that man, all told, a cold thousand dollars to surgeon, hospital,and nurses."
And while he talked on, holding Daughtry's eyes, a smell of roast meatbegan to pervade the air. Doctor Emory smelled it eagerly. So did MissJudson smell it, but she had been warned and gave no notice. Nor did shelook at the juxtaposition of cigar and finger, although she knew by theevidence of her nose that it still obtained.
"What's burning?" Daughtry demanded suddenly, sniffing the air andglancing around.
"Pretty rotten cigar," Doctor Emory observed, having removed it fromcontact with Kwaque's finger and now examining it with criticaldisapproval. He held it close to his nose, and his face portrayeddisgust. "I won't say cabbage leaves. I'll merely say it's something Idon't know and don't care to know. That's the trouble. They get out agood, new brand of cigar, advertise it, put the best of tobacco into it,and, when it has taken with the public, put in inferior tobacco and ridethe popularity of it. No more in mine, thank you. This day I change mybrand."
So speaking, he tossed the cigar into a cuspidor. And Kwaque, leaningback in the queerest chair in which he had ever sat, was unaware that theend of his finger had been burned and roasted half an inch deep, andmerely wondered when the medicine doctor would cease talking and beginlooking at the swelling that hurt his side under his arm.
And for the first time in his life, and for the ultimate time, DagDaughtry fell down. It was an irretrievable fall-down. Life, in itsfreedom of come and go, by heaving sea and reeling deck, through the homeof the trade-winds, back and forth between the ports, ceased there forhim in Walter Merritt Emory's office, while the calm-browed Miss Judsonlooked on and marvelled that a man's flesh should roast and the man wincenot from the roasting of it.
Doctor Emory continued to talk, and tried a fresh cigar, and, despite thefact that his reception-room was overflowing, delivered, not merely along, but a live and interesting, dissertation on the subject of cigarsand of the tobacco leaf and filler as grown and prepared for cigars inthe tobacco-favoured regions of the earth.
"Now, as regards this swelling," he was saying, as he began a belated anddistant examination of Kwaque's affliction, "I should say, at a glance,that it is neither tumour nor cancer, nor is it even a boil. I shouldsay . . . "
A knock at the private door into the hall made him straighten up with aneagerness that he did not attempt to mask. A nod to Miss Judson sent herto open the door, and entered two policemen, a police sergeant, and aprofessionally whiskered person in a business suit with a carnation inhis button-hole.
"Good morning, Doctor Masters," Emory greeted the professional one, and,to the others: "Howdy, Sergeant;" "Hello, Tim;" "Hello, Johnson--when didthey shift you off the Chinatown squad?"
And then, continuing his suspended sentence, Walter Merritt Emory heldon, looking intently at Kwaque's swelling:
"I should say, as I was saying, that it is the finest, ripest,perforating ulcer of the _bacillus leprae_ order, that any San Franciscodoctor has had the honour of presenting to the board of health."
"Leprosy!" exclaimed Doctor Masters.
And all started at his pronouncement of the word. The sergeant and thetwo policemen shied away from Kwaque; Miss Judson, with a smothered cry,clapped her two hands over her heart; and Dag Daughtry, shocked butsceptical, demanded:
"What are you givin' us, Doc.?"
"Stand still! don't move!" Walter Merritt Emory said peremptorily toDaughtry. "I want you to take notice," he added to the others, as hegently touched the live-end of his fresh cigar to the area of dark skinabove and between the steward's eyes. "Don't move," he commandedDaughtry. "Wait a moment. I am not ready yet."
And while Daughtry waited, perplexed, confused, wondering why DoctorEmory did not proceed, the coal of fire burned his skin and flesh, tillthe smoke of it was apparent to all, as was the smell of it. With asharp laugh of triumph, Doctor Emory stepped back.
"Well, go ahead with what you was goin' to do," Daughtry grumbled, therush of events too swift and too hidden for him to comprehend. "An' whenyou're done with that, I just want you to explain what you said aboutleprosy an' that nigger-boy there. He's my boy, an' you can't pullanything like that off on him . . . or me."
"Gentlemen, you have seen," Doctor Emory said. "Two undoubted cases ofit, master and man, the man more advanced, with the combination of bothforms, the master with only the anaesthetic form--he has a touch of it,too, on his little finger. Take them away. I strongly advise, DoctorMasters, a thorough fumigation of the ambulance afterward."
"Look here . . . " Dag Daughtry began belligerently.
Doctor Emory glanced warningly to Doctor Masters, and Doctor Mastersglanced authoritatively at the sergeant who glanced commandingly at histwo policemen. But they did not spring upon Daughtry. Instead, theybacked farther away, drew their clubs, and glared intimidatingly at him.More convincing than anything else to Daughtry was the conduct of thepolicemen. They were manifestly afraid of contact with him. As hestarted forward, they poked the ends of their extended clubs towards hisribs to ward him off.
"Don't you come any closer," one warned him, flourishing his club withthe advertisement of braining him. "You stay right where you are untilyou get your orders."
"Put on your shirt and stand over there alongside your master," DoctorEmory commanded Kwaque, having suddenly elevated the chair and spilledhim out on his feet on the floor.
"But what under the sun . . . " Daughtry began, but was ignored by hisquondam friend, who was saying to Doctor Masters:
"The pest-house has been vacant since that Japanese died. I know thegang of cowards in your department so I'd advise you to give the dope tothese here so that they can disinfect the premises when they go in."
"For the love of Mike," Daughtry pleaded, all of stunned belligerencegone from him in his state of stunned conviction that the dread diseasepossessed him. He touched his finger to his sensationless forehead, thensmelled it and recognized the burnt flesh he had not felt burning. "Forthe love of Mike, don't be in such a rush. If I've got it, I've got it.But that ain't no reason we can't deal with each other like white men.Give me two hours an' I'll get outa the city. An' in twenty-four I'll beouta the country. I'll take ship--"
"And continue to be a menace to the public health wherever you are,"Doctor Masters broke in, already visioning a column in the eveningpapers, with scare-heads, in which he would appear the hero, the St.George of San Francisco standing with poised lance between the people andthe dragon of leprosy.
"Take them away," said Waiter Merritt Emory, avoiding looking Daughtry inthe eyes.
"Ready! March!" commanded the sergeant.
The two policemen advanced on Daughtry and Kwaque with extended clubs.
"Keep away, an' keep movin'," one of the policemen growled fiercely. "An'do what we say, or get your head crack
ed. Out you go, now. Out the doorwith you. Better tell that coon to stick right alongside you."
"Doc., won't you let me talk a moment?" Daughtry begged of Emory.
"The time for talking is past," was the reply. "This is the time forsegregation.--Doctor Masters, don't forget that ambulance when you'requit of the load."
So the procession, led by the board-of-heath doctor and the sergeant, andbrought up in the rear by the policemen with their protectively extendedclubs, started through the doorway.
Whirling about on the threshold, at the imminent risk of having his skullcracked, Dag Daughtry called back:
"Doc! My dog! You know 'm."
"I'll get him for you," Doctor Emory consented quickly. "What's theaddress?"
"Room eight-seven, Clay street, the Bowhead Lodging House, you know theplace, entrance just around the corner from the Bowhead Saloon. Have 'msent out to me wherever they put me--will you?"
"Certainly I will," said Doctor Emory, "and you've got a cockatoo, too?"
"You bet, Cocky! Send 'm both along, please, sir."
* * * * *
"My!" said Miss Judson, that evening, at dinner with a certain younginterne of St. Joseph's Hospital. "That Doctor Emory is a wizard. Nowonder he's successful. Think of it! Two filthy lepers in our office to-day! One was a coon. And he knew what was the matter the moment he laideyes on them. He's a caution. When I tell you what he did to them withhis cigar! And he was cute about it! He gave me the wink first. Andthey never dreamed what he was doing. He took his cigar and . . . "