Citizen Tom Paine Read Free

and all it was a task to pick out Tom Paine, and the search over, a thankless task it seemed to the doctor. The clothes were the same, the beard worse, the dirt thicker, the whole a disgusting bundle of rags and misery that whispered for the doctor to go away and allow it to die in peace.
    â€œAh, and die you shall,” the doctor said to himself.
    â€œGo away,” Paine groaned.
    â€œYou have a letter from Franklin?” Kearsley inquired, clutching at one last straw.
    â€œYes, damn him!”
    â€œAh—and what money, my good lad?”
    â€œThree pounds seven,” Paine whispered.
    â€œAh! And tomorrow you’ll be up and walking! Got the money with you? Got any luggage?”
    â€œCan’t you see I’m dying?”
    The doctor left and then returned with the boatman, who demanded three shillings before he would step onto the ship. Hand and foot, they took Tom Paine, dragged him out into the air, and then dumped him like a pile of rags into the bottom of the boat.
    There was a last spark of defiance and consciousness in Paine, only enough for him to call the doctor and boatman a pair of bastards and ask why he hadn’t been left to die. The doctor was equally frank, and as the boatman pulled for shore he leaned over his sweating, suffering patient and explained, “Because three pounds seven are not come by every day, not by a man who’s starting in practice. I’m not a thief; I’ll earn the money; you’ll live, though God only knows why.”
    â€œThe Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Lord,” said a Quaker lady who brought him a box of cookies and a scent bag to hang under his nose. She had heard that there was a homeless one living with Kearsley, and that he was profane and dirty, and that Kearsley had wagered the great Dr. Japes twenty pounds that the patient wouldn’t die. That was blasphemous. Now Paine admitted to her that he had been born and raised a Quaker, while Kearsley snickered at the foot of the bed—which made matters worse.
    â€œPray,” she told Paine. “Beg the Lord’s forgiveness and his everlasting mercy.”
    â€œHe’s cured now.” Kearsley smiled.
    â€œPray, pray!” she called back as she fled from the room, and Kearsley leaned over the footboard, shaking with laughter.
    â€œWhat a filthy devil you are,” Paine said.
    â€œCall the kettle black! Didn’t I give you your first bath?”
    â€œGet out of here.”
    â€œI came to remind you that you owe me ten pounds,” the doctor said. “You’ve been here six weeks, so that’s reasonable. I’ve saved your life, for what that’s worth, and altogether it’s a small piece of gratitude you’ve shown. What is a man’s life worth?”
    â€œI’m grateful,” Paine muttered, “and mine’s worth little enough. I’ll pay you when I find work.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    Paine shrugged.
    â€œI could throw you into jail for the debt,” the doctor speculated.
    â€œYou could,” Paine admitted. He was thin and worn with his sickness, white skin into which the twisted brown eyes were sunk like heavy question marks, bones stretching him like old clothes on a dryer. Kearsley said he was well, but he felt too tired to talk or plead.
    â€œI’ll give you a month,” Kearsley said suddenly. “You can leave here tomorrow.” And Paine nodded gratefully and closed his eyes.
    He must have slept for a while, and now the doctor had gone, and the little room was mellow with twilight. There was a single dormer window that showed him, from where he lay, a half a dozen of the red-tiled Philadelphia rooftops. Beyond, a church steeple poked up against the gray sky, and as Tom Paine watched, the snow began to fall, clean, white, lazy flakes that drifted down faster and faster until a white curtain closed in the little window. The coals of a fire lay in the grate;