CHAPTER X

A BAD CASE My unsought fame as a medicine man continued to grow. One morning I heard a white voice outside asking, "Is the doctor in?" Billy replied: "Mr. Seton is inside." On going forth I met a young American who thus introduced himself: "My name is Y------, from Michigan. I was a student at Ann Arbor when you lectured there in 1903. 1 don't suppose you remember me; I was one of the reception committee; but I'm mighty glad to meet you out here." After cordial greetings he held up his arm to explain the call and said: "I'm in a pretty bad way." "Let's see." He unwound the bandage and showed a hand and arm swollen out of all shape, twice the natural size, and of a singular dropsical pallor. "Have you any pain?" "I can't sleep from the torture of it." "Where does it hurt now?" "In the hand." "How did you get it?" "It seemed to come on after a hard crossing of Lake Athabaska. We had to row all night." I asked one or two more questions, really to hide my puzzlement. "What in the world is it?" I said to myself; "all so fat and puffy." I cudgelled my brain for a clue. As I examined the hand in silence to play for time and conceal my ignorance, he went on: "What I'm afraid of is blood-poisoning. I couldn't get out to a doctor before a month, and by that time I'll be one-armed or dead. I know which I'd prefer." Knowing, at all events, that nothing but evil could come of fear, I said: "Now see here. You can put that clean out of your mind. You never saw blood-poisoning that colour, did you?" "That's so," and he seemed intensely relieved. While I was thus keeping up an air of omniscience by saying nothing, Major Jarvis came up. "Look at this, Jarvis," said I; "isn't it a bad one? "Phew," said the Major, "that's the worst felon I ever saw." Like a gleam from heaven came the word felon. That's what it was, a felon or whitlow, and again I breathed freely. Turning to the patient with my most cock-sure professional air, I said: "Now see, Y., you needn't worry; you've hurt your finger in rowing, and the injury was deep and has set up a felon. It is not yet headed up enough; as soon as it is I'll lance it, unless it bursts of itself (and inwardly I prayed it might burst). Can you get any linseed meal or bran?" "Afraid not." "Well, then, get some clean rags and keep the place covered with them dipped in water as hot as you can stand it, and we'll head it up in twenty-four hours; then in three days I'll have you in good shape to travel." The last sentence, delivered with the calm certainty of a man who knows all about it and never made a mistake, did so much good to the patient that I caught a reflex of it myself. He gave me his good hand and said with emotion: "You don't know how much good you have done me. I don't mind being killed, but I don't want to go through life a cripple." "You say you haven't slept?" I asked. "Not for three nights; I've suffered too much." "Then take these pills. Go to bed at ten o'clock and take a pill; if this does not put you to sleep, take another at 10.30. If you are still awake at 11, take the third; then you will certainly sleep." He went off almost cheerfully. Next morning he was back, looking brighter. "Well," I said, "you slept last night, all right." "No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't there?" "Yes." "I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out in my sober senses, without any drugs." "Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills, he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have you sound as a dollar." Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock," I said, thinking how very professional it sounded. The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution. He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy." "I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my mettle." "'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances. "Are you ready?" He laid his pudding-y hand on the table. "You better have your Indian friend hold that hand." "I'll never budge," he replied, with set teeth, and motioned the Indian away. And I knew he would not flinch. He will never know (till he reads this, perhaps) what an effort it cost me. I knew only I must cut deep enough to reach the pus, not so deep as to touch the artery, and not across the tendons, and must do it firmly, at one clean stroke. I did. It was a horrid success. He never quivered, but said: "Is that all? That's a pin-prick to what I've been through every minute for the last week." I felt faint, went out behind the cabin, and--shall I confess it?--took a long swig of brandy. But I was as good as my promise: in three days he was well enough to travel, and soon as strong as ever. I wonder if real doctors ever conceal, under an air of professional calm, just such doubts and fears as worried me.