Mrs. Baker met her husband at the door.

“How is he?” was the Captain's first question. “Better, hey?”

“No,” was the nervous answer. “No, I don't think he is. His throat's terrible sore and the fever's just as bad.”

Again Captain Hiram's conscience smote him.

“Dear! dear!” he exclaimed. “And I've been loafin' around the depot with Sol Berry and the rest of 'em instead of stayin' home with you, Sophrony. I KNEW I was doin' wrong, but I didn't realize—”

“Course you didn't, Hiram. I'm glad you got a few minutes' rest, after bein' up with him half the night. I do wish the doctor was home, though. When will he be back?”

“Not until late to-morrer, if then. Did you keep on givin' the medicine?”

“Yes, but it don't seem to do much good. You go and set with him now, Hiram. I must be seein' about supper.”

So into the sick room went Captain Hiram to sit beside the crib and sing “Sailor boy, sailor boy, 'neath the wild billow,” as a lugubrious lullaby.

Little Hiram Joash tossed and tumbled. He was in a fitful slumber when Mrs. Baker called her husband to supper. The meal was anything but a cheerful one. They talked but little. Over the home, ordinarily so cheerful, had settled a gloom that weighed upon them.

“My! my!” sighed Captain Hiram, “how lonesome it seems without him chatterin' and racketin' sound. Seems darker'n usual, as if there was a shadow on the place.”

“Hush, Hiram! don't talk that way. A shadow! Oh, WHAT made you say that? Sounds like a warnin', almost.”

“Warnin'?”

“Yes, a forewarnin', you know. 'The valley of the shadow—'”

“HUSH!” Captain Baker's face paled under its sunburn. “Don't say such things, Sophrony. If that happened, the Lord help you and me. But it won't—it won't. We're nervous, that's all. We're always so careful of Dusenberry, as if he was made out of thin china, that we get fidgety when there's no need of it. We mustn't be foolish.”

After supper Mrs. Baker tiptoed into the bedroom. She emerged with a very white face.

“Hiram,” she whispered, “he acts dreadful queer. Come in and see him.”

The “first mate” was tossing back and forth in the crib, making odd little choky noises in his swollen throat. When his father entered he opened his eyes, stared unmeaningly, and said: “'Tand by to det der ship under way.”

“Good Lord! he's out of his head,” gasped the Captain. Sophronia and he stepped back into the sitting room and looked at each other, the same thought expressed in the face of each. Neither spoke for a moment, then Captain Hiram said:

“Now don't you worry, Sophrony. The Doctor ain't home, but I'm goin' out to—to telegraph him, or somethin'. Keep a stiff upper lip. It'll be all right. God couldn't go back on you and me that way. He just couldn't. I'll be back in a little while.”

“But, oh, Hiram! if he should—if he SHOULD be taken away, what WOULD we do?”

She began to cry. Her husband laid a trembling hand on her shoulder.

“But he won't,” he declared stoutly. “I tell you God wouldn't do such a thing. Good-by, old lady. I'll hurry fast as I can.”

As he took up his cap and turned to the door he heard the voice of the weary little first mate chokily calling his crew to quarters. “All hands on deck!”

The telegraph office was in Beriah Higgins's store. Thither ran the Captain. Pat Sharkey, Mr. Higgins's Irish helper, who acted as telegraph operator during Gertie Higgins's absence, gave Captain Hiram little satisfaction.

“How can I get Dr. Parker?” asked Pat. “He's off on a cruise and land knows where I can reach him to-night. I'll do what I can, Cap, but it's ten chances out of nine against a wire gettin' to him.”

Captain Hiram left the store, dodging questioners who were anxious to know what his trouble might be, and dazedly crossed Main Street, to the railway station. He thought of asking advice of his friend, the depot master.

The evening train from Boston pulled out as he passed through the waiting room. One or two passengers were standing on the platform. One of these was a short, square-shouldered man with gray side whiskers and eyeglasses. The initials on his suit case were J. S. M., Boston, and they stood for John Spencer Morgan. If the bearer of the suit case had followed the fashion of the native princes of India and had emblazoned his titles upon his baggage, the commonplace name just quoted might have been followed by “M.D., LL.D., at Harvard and Oxford; vice president American Medical Society; corresponding secretary Associated Society of Surgeons; lecturer at Harvard Medical College; author of 'Diseases of the Throat and Lungs,' etc., etc.”

But Dr. Morgan was not given to advertising either his titles or himself, and he was hurrying across the platform to Redny Blount's depot wagon when Captain Hiram touched him on the arm.

“Why, hello, Captain Baker,” exclaimed the Doctor, “how do you do?”

“Dr. Morgan,” said the Captain, “I—I hope you'll excuse my presumin' on you this way, but I want to ask a favor of you, a great favor. I want to ask if you'll come down to the house and see the boy; he's on the sick list.”

“What, Dusenberry?”

“Yes, sir. He's pretty bad, I'm 'fraid, and the old lady's considerable upsot about him. If you just come down and kind of take an observation, so's we could sort of get our bearin's, as you might say, 'twould be a mighty help to all hands.”

“But where's your town physician? Hasn't he been called?”

The Captain explained. He had inquired, and he had telegraphed, but could get no word of Dr. Parker's whereabouts.

The great Boston specialist listened to Captain Hiram's story in an absent-minded way. Holidays were few and far between with him, and when he accepted the long-standing invitation of Mr. Ogden Williams to run down for the week end he determined to forget the science of medicine and all that pertained to it for the four days of his outing. But an exacting patient had detained him long enough to prevent his taking the train that morning, and now, on the moment of his belated arrival, he was asked to pay a professional call. He liked the Captain, who had taken him out fishing several times on his previous excursions to East Harniss, and he remembered Dusenberry as a happy little sea urchin, but he simply couldn't interrupt his pleasure trip to visit a sick baby. Besides, the child was Dr. Parker's patient, and professional ethics forbade interference.

“Captain Hiram,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but it will be impossible for me to do what you ask. Mr. Williams expected me this morning, and I am late already. Dr. Parker will, no doubt, return soon. The baby cannot be dangerously ill or he would not have left him.”

The Captain slowly turned away.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said huskily. “I knew I hadn't no right to ask.”

He walked across the platform, abstractedly striking his right hand into his left. When he reached the ticket window he put one hand against the frame as if to steady himself, and stood there listlessly.

The enterprising Mr. Blount had been hanging about the Doctor like a cat about the cream pitcher; now he rushed up, grasped the suit case, and officiously led the way toward the depot wagon. Dr. Morgan followed more slowly. As he passed the Captain he glanced up into the latter's face, lighted, as it was, by the lamp inside the window.

The Doctor stopped and looked again. Then he took another step forward, hesitated, turned on his heel, and said:

“Wait a moment, Blount. Captain Hiram, do you live far from here?”

The Captain started. “No, sir, only a little ways.”

“All right. I'll go down and look at this boy of yours. Mind you, I'll not take the case, simply give my opinion on it, that's all. Blount, take my grip to Mr. Williams's. I'm going to walk down with the Captain.”

“Haul on ee bowline, ee bowline, haul!” muttered the first mate, as they came into the room. The lamp that Sophronia was holding shook, and the Captain hurriedly brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dr. Morgan started perceptibly as he bent forward to look at the little fevered face of Dusenberry. Graver and graver he became as he felt the pulse and peered into the swollen throat. At length he rose and led the way back into the sitting room.

“Captain Baker,” he said simply, “I must ask you and your wife to be brave. The child has diphtheria and—”

“Diphthery!” gasped Sophronia, as white as her best tablecloth.

“Good Lord above!” cried the Captain.

“Diphtheria,” repeated the Doctor; “and, although I dislike extremely to criticize a member of my own profession, I must say that any physician should have recognized it.”

Sophronia groaned and covered her face with her apron.

“Ain't there—ain't there no chance, Doctor?” gasped the Captain.

“Certainly, there's a chance. If I could administer antitoxin by to-morrow noon the patient might recover. What time does the morning train from Boston arrive here?”

“Ha'f-past ten or thereabouts.”

Dr. Morgan took his notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines in pencil on one of the pages. Then he tore out the leaf and handed it to the Captain.

“Send that telegram immediately to my assistant in Boston,” he said. “It directs him to send the antitoxin by the early train. If nothing interferes it should be here in time.”

Captain Hiram took the slip of paper and ran out at the door bareheaded.

Dr. Morgan stood in the middle of the floor absent-mindedly looking at his watch. Sophronia was gazing at him appealingly. At length he put his watch in his pocket and said quietly:

“Mrs. Baker, I must ask you to give me a room. I will take the case.” Then he added mentally: “And that settles my vacation.”

Dr. Morgan's assistant was a young man whom nature had supplied with a prematurely bald head, a flourishing beard, and a way of appearing ten years older than he really was. To these gifts, priceless to a young medical man, might be added boundless ambition and considerable common sense.

The yellow envelope which contained the few lines meaning life or death to little Hiram Joash Baker was delivered at Dr. Morgan's Back Bay office at ten minutes past ten. Dr. Payson—that was the assistant's name—was out, but Jackson, the colored butler, took the telegram into his employer's office, laid it on the desk among the papers, and returned to the hall to finish his nap in the armchair. When Dr. Payson came in, at 11:30, the sleepy Jackson forgot to mention the dispatch.

The next morning as Jackson was cleaning the professional boots in the kitchen and chatting with the cook, the thought of the yellow envelope came back to his brain. He went up the stairs with such precipitation that the cook screamed, thinking he had a fit.

“Doctah! Doctah!” he exclaimed, opening the door of the assistant's chamber, “did you git dat telegraft I lef' on your desk las' night?”

“What telegraph?” asked the assistant sleepily. By way of answer Jackson hurried out and returned with the yellow envelope. The assistant opened it and read as follows:

Send 1,500 units Diphtheritic Serum to me by morning train. Don't fail. Utmost importance.

J. S. MORGAN.

Dr. Payson sprang out of bed, and running to the table took up the Railway Guide, turned to the pages devoted to the O. C. and C. C. 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: