The Story of Dr. Wassell Read Free

with a great
awareness of duty being performed. Then he visited another ward where some
less serious cases from the Marblehead , and also some from the Houston , had been placed. He made similar notes on these, for he was
liaison officer to the whole bunch, forty-two in all. But like every doctor
he felt drawn to those who needed him most, and he was soon back in the
“serious” ward for a second and less formal visit. It was a fact also that he
enjoyed talking almost as much as he hated writing, and now, with the load of
writing off his mind, he could indulge himself by chatting pleasantly from
bed to bed, with a cheery word and a smile to those who could answer, a smile
without words to those too ill to listen, and a glance of sympathetic
appraisal over those who were still unconscious. During this second visit,
the men began to forget their earlier idealizations, and it was a definite
step towards liking him. He seemed especially interested in where their homes
were, and when one of them said Arkansas, the doctor immediately asked what
county, and, when that was named also, answered in triumph: “Sure, I know it!
I had my first practice near there thirty years ago. Plantation
job—mostly colored patients—couldn’t pay me anything, often as
not—I used to get ‘em to dump a load of wood in my yard, or a sack of
potatoes, or maybe a chicken for Sunday dinner—it was less trouble than
botherin’ ‘em for money. Yes, I had a pretty tough time, what with all the
household chores and ridin’ miles over the hills to some little
cabin—but I’ll tell you what, I had a good horse, so I never needed to
keep awake only one way if I was called out in the middle of the
night—that old horse would bring me home safe while I was fast
asleep—like he knew every road and creek and overhangin’ tree in the
county. Never had a horse like him before or since…”
    The Arkansas boy, whose name was Hanrahan, had too many facial bandages to
smile, but his one visible eye lightened as the doctor went on gossiping.
    Presently his neighbor, who had been listening, interrupted: “Was that
Chinese you were speaking just now, Doc?”
    The doctor swung round. “Sure it was—I lived in China for
years—I was a medical missionary out there…But I’m a regular Arkansas
razorback for all that.”
    Hanrahan’s eye gleamed again.
    Before he left the ward he addressed the men again from the rail of
McGuffey’s bed nearest to the door. “You boys all remember now I’m here to
help you—anything you want, don’t stand on ceremony, you’ve only got to
tell me and I’ll do it if I can—that is, if it’s not against the
rules.” He saw that McGuffey was giving him a half-impudent look. “Well,
McGuffey, what’s on your mind? Anything you want?”
    “Plenty, sir, only you wouldn’t like to hear about it.”
    There were a few laughs, but not very many, for the men were not exactly
in a laughing mood. The doctor ignored the reply, because he had met
McGuffey’s type before (or thought he had); they were apt to be a nuisance if
you gave any encouragement to their “freshness.” He waited a moment, hoping
somebody else would say something. Then, from far down the ward, came the
deep melancholy voice of Goode, who had lost an eye.
    “There’s one thing all of us want, Doc, and that’s to get home.”
    Nobody laughed at that, or even echoed it, but it was as if their very
silence were an echo. The doctor felt this with an odd sensitivity he could
not have explained. Of course the men wanted to go home, it was natural;
however kind and efficient the Dutch were, everyone would rather be on the
other side of the ocean. But there was nothing he could do about it. He took
a few paces along the alley between the line of cots, and said: “I
understand, son. You don’t have to tell me things like that. But you
see—it’s out of my province. I’ve got the job of looking after you