The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him Page 12

  CHAPTER XII.

  HIS FIRST CLIENT.

  Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival,writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after avisit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for thefirst time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and returnto his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared toacknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother'sdisappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the door,and, in response to his "come in," a plain-looking laborer entered andstood awkwardly before him.

  "What can I do for you?" asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the manto state his business.

  "If you please, sir," said the man, humbly, "it's Missy. And I hopeyou'll pardon me for troubling you."

  "Certainly," said Peter. "What about Missy?"

  "She's--the doctor says she's dying," said the man, adding, with aslight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt:"Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already."

  "And what can I do?" said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea.

  "Missy wants to see you before she goes. It's only a child's wish, sir,and you needn't trouble about it. But I had to promise her I'd come andask you. I hope it's no offence?"

  "No." Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and thetwo went into the street together.

  "What is the trouble?" asked Peter, as they walked.

  "We don't know, sir. They were all took yesterday, and two are deadalready." The man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve,smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face.

  "You've had a doctor?"

  "Not till this morning. We didn't think it was bad at first."

  "What is your name?"

  "Blackett, sir--Jim Blackett."

  Peter began to see daylight. He remembered both a Sally and MatildaBlackett.--That was probably "Missy."

  A walk of six blocks transferred them to the centre of the tenementdistrict. Two flights of stairs brought them to the Blackett's rooms. Onthe table of the first, which was evidently used both as a kitchen andsitting-room, already lay a coffin containing a seven-year-old girl.Candles burned at the four corners, adding to the bad air and heat. Inthe room beyond, in bed, with a tired-looking woman tending her, lay achild of five. Wan and pale as well could be, with perspiration standingin great drops on the poor little hot forehead, the hand of death, as itso often does, had put something into the face never there before.

  "Oh, Mister Peter," the child said, on catching sight of him, "I saidyou'd come."

  Peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head. Then he took anewspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and beganfanning the child as he sat on the bed.

  "What did you want me for?" he asked.

  "Won't you tell me the story you read from the book? The one about thelittle girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and realflowers."

  Peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but itwas never finished. For while he talked another little girl went to thecountry, a far country, from which there is no return--and a veryordinary little story ended abruptly.

  The father and mother took the death very calmly. Peter asked them a fewquestions, and found that there were three other children, the eldest ofwhom was an errand boy, and therefore away. The others, twin babies, hadbeen cared for by a woman on the next floor. He asked about money, andfound that they had not enough to pay the whole expenses of the doublefuneral.

  "But the undertaker says he'll do it handsome, and will let the part Ihaven't money for, run, me paying it off in weekly payments," the manexplained, when Peter expressed some surprise at the evident needlessexpense they were entailing on themselves.

  While he talked, the doctor came in.

  "I knew there was no chance," he said, when told of the death. "And youremember I said so," he added, appealing to the parents.

  "Yes, that's what he said," responded the father.

  "Well," said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar tohim, "I've found what the matter was."

  "No?" said the mother, becoming interested at once.

  "It was the milk," the doctor continued. "I thought there was somethingwrong with it, the moment I smelt it, but I took some home to makesure." He pulled a paper out of his pocket. "That's the test, and Dr.Plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there."

  The Blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, notunderstanding a word of it. Peter looked too, when they had satisfiedtheir curiosity. As he read it, a curious expression came into his face.A look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the"Sunrise." It could hardly be called a change of expression, but rathera strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look.

  "That was in the milk drunk by the children?" he asked, placing hisfinger on a particular line.

  "Yes," replied the doctor. "The milk was bad to start with, and wasdrugged to conceal the fact. These carbonates sometimes work veryunevenly, and I presume this particular can of milk got more than itsshare of the doctoring.

  "There are almost no glycerides," remarked Peter, wishing to hold thedoctor till he should have had time to think.

  "No," said the doctor. "It was skim milk."

  "You will report it to the Health Board?" asked Peter.

  "When I'm up there," said the doctor. "Not that it will do any good. Butthe law requires it"

  "Won't they investigate?"

  "They'll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, theyinvestigate, but don't prosecute."

  "Thank you," said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and wentupstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to whereBridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merelywere the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn,were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer,reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peterasked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister.Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little moneylaid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. "Mr. Moriarty gave us the whiskyand beer at half price," the girl explained incidentally. "Thank you,sir. We don't need anything." Peter rose to go. "Bridget was oftenspeaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her."

  Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb's patients.These were in a fair way for recovery.

  "They didn't get any of the milk till last night," the gray-haired,rather sad-looking doctor told him, "and I got at them early thismorning. Then I suspected the milk at once, and treated themaccordingly. I've been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it'sgenerally the milk. Dr. Sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn't gethold quite as quick. But he knows more of the science of the thing, andcan make a good analysis."

  "You think they have a chance?"

  "If this heat will let up a bit" said the doctor, mopping his forehead."It's ninety-eight in here; that's enough to kill a sound child."

  "Could they be moved?"

  "To-morrow, perhaps."

  "Mrs. Dooley, could you take your children away to the countryto-morrow, if I find a place for you?"

  "It's very little money I have, sir."

  "It won't cost you anything. Can you leave your family?"

  "There's only Moike. And he'll do very well by himself," he was told.

  "Then if the children can go, be ready at 10:15 to-morrow, and you shallall go up for a couple of weeks to my mother's in Massachusetts. They'llhave plenty of good food there," he explained to the doctor, "grass andflowers close to the house and woods not far away."

  "That will fix them," said the doctor.

  "About this milk. Won't the Health Board punish the sellers?" Peterasked.

  "Probably not," he was told "It's difficult to get them to do anything,and at this season so many of them are on vac
ations, it is doubly hardto make them stir."

  Peter went to the nearest telegraph, and sent a dispatch to his mother.Then he went back to his office, and sitting down, began to study hiswall. But he was not thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. He wasthinking of his first case. He had found a client.