Railroad and ran his finger down the printed tables. The morning train for Cape Cod left at 7:10. It was 6:45 at that moment. As has been said, the assistant had considerable common sense. He proved this by wasting no time in telling the forgetful Jackson what he thought of him. He sent the latter after a cab and proceeded to dress in double-quick time. Ten minutes later he was on his way to the station with the little wooden case containing the precious antitoxin, wrapped and addressed, in his pocket.
It was seven by the Arlington Street Church clock as the cab rattled down Boylston Street. A tangle of a trolley car and a market wagon delayed it momentarily at Harrison Avenue and Essex Street. Dr. Payson, leaning out as the carriage swung into Dewey Square, saw by the big clock on the Union Station that it was 7:13.
He had lost the train.
Now, the assistant had been assistant long enough to know that excuses--in the ordinary sense of the word--did not pass current with Dr. Morgan. That gentleman had telegraphed for antitoxin, and said it was important that he should have it; therefore, antitoxin must be sent in spite of time-tables and forgetful butlers. Dr.
Payson went into the waiting room and sat down to think. After a moment's deliberation he went over to the ticket office and asked:
"What is the first stop of the Cape Cod express?"
"Brockboro," answered the ticket seller.
"Is the train usually on time?"
"Well, I should smile. That's Charlie Mills's train, and the old man ain't been conductor on this road twenty-two years for nothin'."
"Mills? Does he live on Shawmut Avenue?"
"Dunno. Billy, where does Charlie Mills live?"
"Somewhere at the South End. Shawmut Avenue, I think."
"Thank you," said the assistant, and, helping himself to a time-table, he went back rejoicing to his seat in the waiting room. He had stumbled upon an unexpected bit of luck.
There might be another story written in connection with this one; the story of a veteran railroad man whose daughter had been very, very ill with a dreaded disease of the lungs, and who, when other physicians had given up hope, had been brought back to health by a celebrated specialist of our acquaintance. But this story cannot be told just now; suffice it to say that Conductor Charlie Mills had vowed that he would put his neck beneath the wheels of his own express train, if by so doing he could confer a favor on Dr. John Spencer Morgan.
The assistant saw by his time-table that the Cape Cod express reached Brockboro at 8:05. He went over to the telegraph office and wrote two telegrams. The first read like this:
CALVIN S. WISE, The People's Drug Store, 28 Broad Street, Brockboro, Mass.:
Send package 1,500 units Diphtheritic Serum marked with my name to station. Hand to Conductor Mills, Cape Cod express. Train will wait. Matter life and death.
The second telegram was to Conductor Mills. It read:
Hold train Brockboro to await arrival C. A. Wise. Great personal favor. Very important.
Both of these dispatches were signed with the magic name, "J. S.
Morgan, M.D."
"Well," said the assistant as he rode back to his office, "I don't know whether Wise will get the stuff to the train in time, or whether Mills will wait for him, but at any rate I've done my part.
I hope breakfast is ready, I'm hungry."
Mr. Wise, of "The People's Drug Store," had exactly two minutes in which to cover the three-quarters of a mile to the station. As a matter of course, he was late. Inquiring for Conductor Mills, he was met by a red-faced man in uniform, who, watch in hand, demanded what in the vale of eternal torment he meant by keeping him waiting eight minutes.
"Do you realize," demanded the red-faced man, "that I'm liable to lose my job? I'll have you to understand that if any other man than Doc. Morgan asked me to hold up the Cape Cod express, I'd tell him to go right plumb to--"
Here Mr. Wise interrupted to hand over the package and explain that it was a matter of life and death. Conductor Mills only grunted as he swung aboard the train.
"Hump her, Jim," he said to the engineer; "she's got to make up those eight minutes."
And Jim did.
And so it happened that on the morning of the Fourth of July, Dusenberry's birthday, Captain Hiram Baker and his wife sat together in the sitting room, with very happy faces. The Captain had in his hands the "truly boat with sails," which the little first mate had so ardently wished for.
She was a wonder, that boat. Red hull, real lead on the keel, brass rings on the masts, reef points on the main and fore sail, jib, flying jib and topsails, all complete. And on the stern was the name, "Dusenberry. East Harniss."
Captain Hiram set her down in front of him on the floor.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, "won't his eyes stick out when he sees that rig, hey? Wisht he would be well enough to see it to-day, same as we planned."
"Well, Hiram," said Sophrony, "we hadn't ought to complain. We'd ought to be thankful he's goin' to get well at all. Dr. Morgan says, thanks to that blessed toxing stuff, he'll be up and around in a couple of weeks."
"Sophrony," said her husband, "we'll have a special birthday celebration for him when he gets all well. You can bake the frosted cake and we'll have some of the other children in. I TOLD you God wouldn't be cruel enough to take him away."
And this is how Fate and the medical profession and the O. C. and C. C. Railroad combined to give little Hiram Joash Baker his birthday, and explains why, as he strolled down Main Street that afternoon, Captain Hiram was heard to sing heartily:
Haul on the bowline, the 'Phrony is a-rollin', Haul on the bowline, the bowline, HAUL!
