The doctor turned to his struggle with death. "There is no chance, no chance. The fools! The villains! It's sheer murder!" he muttered, as he strove moment by moment to bring relief to the sick man fighting to get his breath.
After working with him for half an hour the doctor had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to breathe more easily. But by that time he had given up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed to increase his rage to see his patient slipping away from him. For do what he could, the heart was failing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was simply a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed the dying man opened his eyes and looked about.
The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, trying to make out the words which poor Scotty was making such painful efforts to utter. But no words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed to the chair on which his clothes lay.
"You want something out of your pocket?" inquired the doctor. The eyes gave assent. One by one the doctor held up the articles he found in the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, then the eyes that had followed every movement expressed satisfaction.
"Do you want me to read it?"
It was from the mother to her son Andy in far Canada, breathing gratitude for gifts of money from time to time, pride in his well doing, love without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took all the doctor's fortitude to keep his voice clear and steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it and with difficulty carried it to the man's bosom. For a moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but only for a moment. Once more they rested entreatingly upon the doctor's face.
"Something else in your pocket?"
The doctor continued drawing forth the articles one by one till he came to a large worn pocketbook.
"This?"
With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. From the innermost pocket he drew a little photograph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes of the dying man. He took the photograph which the doctor placed in his hand and carried it painfully to his lips.
Once more the eyes began to question.
"You want something else from your pocketbook? If so, close your eyes." The eyes remained wide open. "No? You want me to do something for you? To write?" At once the eyes closed. "I shall write to your mother and send all your things and tell them about you." A smile spread over the face and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, however, they opened wide again. In vain the doctor tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to move. Putting his ear close, the doctor caught the word "Thank."
"Thank who? The teamster?"
The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's with his fingers.
"Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I could help you," said the doctor. "Anything else?"
The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then rested beseechingly upon the doctor's face again. Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, till, with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. Once more, putting his ear close to the lips, the doctor caught the words, "Mother--home," and again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling.
"You wish me to tell your mother that you are going home?" And once more a glad smile lit up the distorted face.
