“And he’s in a hospital! Well, what do you know about that?” Miss Welch regarded the bearer of this astounding information with the air of one who is completely flabbergasted. “The Cameron, did you say? That’s not so far from here. ’Bout a mile, I guess. And you’re going to see him. Well, take it from me, you’re the whitest kid I know.” Harry colored a trifle at this blunt tribute to himself. “I’m going this afternoon. Mr. Brady said I could.” “Did you tell him what you wanted to get off for? I’ll bet you my hat you didn’t.” Harry’s color deepened as he shook his head. “I thought I’d find out all about Mr. Barton first,” he explained. “If I had told Mr. Brady that I went to Mr. Barton’s boarding house last night, he might have thought it funny. Maybe he wouldn’t have let me off. He might have said “Foxy little kiddo,” commented Miss Welch. “That’s just about Brady’s speed. Talk about hospitals! You might as well try to pry open a safe with a toothpick as to get those frosties to talk over a ’phone. They’d say, ‘he’s doing nicely’ if he was at his last gasp. That’s a little sidetrack they’re fond of laying. I know. I had a brother down with typhoid at the Stevenson a coupla years ago. I almost had to break down the doors to get to see him.” “The man on the telephone said last night that Mr. Barton was doing nicely,” admitted Harry. “I didn’t know they always said that. It’s a good thing I asked off. After I’ve seen him I’ll know if there’s anything I can do for him. That lady where he boards didn’t seem to care for anything except what he owes her.” “She’s no lady,” contradicted Miss Welch. “She must have a chunka rock for a heart. I wonder if poor old Barty had any coin? It’s a chilly day for him if he’s broke.” This was a point which Harry also had gravely considered. “Would the store pay him his salary just the same if he were sick a long time?” was his anxious question. “Nope. They hardly ever do it in such a big place as this. Of course, there’s the store beneficiary. He’ll get something every week from Harry left the exchange clerk’s desk considerably enlightened on the subject of hospitals. Now that he was ready to embark on his errand of mercy, he was somewhat concerned as to his reception at the Cameron. “I suppose hospitals have to be as strict as stores,” he reflected. “Probably they have so many poor folks to look after they can’t afford to treat them better.” In reality this is the precise truth as regards the majority of hospitals in a large city. Except in the case of those which have been liberally endowed, a constant struggle goes on to meet the heavy demands made upon them by poverty-stricken humanity. The boy’s heart beat a trifle faster that afternoon, when at five minutes to two o’clock he stopped for a moment at Miss Welch’s desk to tell her he was about to set forth on his pilgrimage of comfort. “Have you any word to send to Mr. Barton?” he asked. “You said for me to stop and see you when I was ready to go.” Miss Welch gave a short, embarrassed laugh. Reaching under her desk she brought forth a “I couldn’t let you beat me to it, Harry,” she said almost apologetically. “When I went to lunch this noon I blew myself to these carnations. They ain’t much, but mebbe they’ll help some.” She did not add that the silver dollar they had cost her was her week’s spending money. “Oh, Miss Welch, you are splendid! I know he’ll like them. It will help me, too, to be able to give them to him. Then he won’t think it queer of me to go to see him. Besides, he’ll be glad to know you remembered him and are sorry he’s sick.” “Away with you!” Miss Welch’s eyes were misty as she waved Harry off on his errand. “Who’d ever thought I’d be sending posies to Smarty? It’s that blessed boy’s fault.” She dashed her hand across her eyes and plunged with relief into crisp discussion with a woman who vainly strove to exchange a wedding present of silver for cash. The Cameron Hospital was situated on the corner of Tremayne and Harris Streets, a distance of about fourteen blocks from Martin Brothers. It was a huge, overwhelming, gray stone building, extending almost the length of the block. Harry felt curiously timid and insignificant as he mounted the wide stone steps. He had never before entered a hospital and the The ward in which Mr. Barton lay ill was on the fourth floor. Carefully following directions, he presently reached it to be challenged at the door by a white-capped nurse. Again Harry was called upon to state his business, then followed the young woman into a long room and down a wide aisle formed by row after row of narrow white beds. “Here is a visitor for you, Mr. Barton.” The nurse had halted beside the very last left-hand bed in the row. Standing directly behind her, Harry’s heart was filled with pity as he caught sight of Mr. Barton’s familiar features, now too plainly stamped with suffering. He lay with closed eyes, which opened languidly at sound of the nurse’s voice. An expression of unbelieving amazement swept his gaunt face as he recognized his caller. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barton.” Harry smiled and held out his hand. “I heard you were sick, so I thought I’d come to see you.” Without speaking, the man weakly clasped the proffered hand. In his tired eyes was a dumb agony of contrition that words could never have expressed. “I’m glad to see you, my boy. It was kind in you to come,” he said faintly. “I would have come to see you before, but I To his utter consternation, Harry saw a tear roll down the sick man’s cheek. “This won’t do at all,” he decided. “I’ve got to cheer him up. I’d better pretend not to notice and start in and tell him about last night.” With a gay, boyish laugh he began: “I went to your house last night, Mr. Barton, and got caught in a snow storm. I was a regular snow-man by the time I got home. It was an awful night, but it’s nice out to-day, only the streets are full of snow.” To his relief no more tears fell. A flash of interest crossed the sick man’s face as he heard this information. “What—did—the woman at my boarding-house say to you?” he inquired. “Oh, she said you had left there for this hospital yesterday. So I telephoned right away to ask about you. I wanted to see you because—well—I hoped I could do something to help you. I wish, if you feel you’d like to, that you’d tell me just how things are with you.” Mr. Barton studied Harry in silence. Something in the lad’s direct, friendly gaze compelled “Would you care to tell me just how bad they are?” queried Harry gently. “You can trust me, you know.” “I know that.” Mr. Barton sighed again. “You’re a good boy and I’ve been very unjust to you.” Harry made a quick gesture of dismissal. “Just tell me about yourself,” he urged. “How serious is your sickness and must you stay here long before you’re well again?” “It’s my stomach,” replied the man. “I’ve had trouble with it for years. I always thought it plain dyspepsia, but there’s a complication that only an operation will cure. But it’s too expensive. Not only the operation, but afterward. I’d have to rest for several months. I can’t afford to do that, and yet I can’t afford to lie here. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never saved any money. I’ve just been able to live on my salary and send a little each month to a sister who’s an invalid.” His speech trailed to a despairing whisper. “I see how it is,” Harry nodded seriously. “If you could somehow get enough money for the operation and afterward, you’d be all right. Perhaps if you’d send for Mr. Edward Martin “I couldn’t do that.” The aisle manager shook his head stubbornly. “I’ve never asked anyone for help yet and I’d rather die than do it now.” A dull flush of humiliation rose to the pale cheeks. “He has so many demands made on him. I couldn’t do it. Could you?” “I don’t believe I’d like to,” confessed Harry. “Still, there ought to be some way out for you. I’m going to try to find it. I’ll think as hard as I can and next Monday I’ll try to come here again. If I can’t I’ll write you.” “You’re a good boy; a good boy,” repeated Mr. Barton. “I don’t deserve it. I never did anything for you except make you trouble. You shame me, Harry.” Again he appeared on the verge of breaking down. “Now, Mr. Barton,” Harry laid his hand lightly on that of the sick man. “You mustn’t think of that. It’s not good for you. We’re going to be friends from now on and I’m going to help you. I must hurry back to the store at once. Oh, yes, I wanted to ask you, will your beneficiary money pay your board here?” “Yes; it’s seven dollars a week and that is what I am entitled to draw. There is one thing I’d like to ask you to do. Draw the salary that’s coming to me from the store and pay my board at Wayland Street. It’s nine dollars. There’s just about money enough owing me to pay it. Ask the nurse for a pen and paper and I’ll write “Of course I will.” Harry’s pity was doubly aroused. What a dreadful thing it was to be so lonely and friendless! As Harry left the hospital with the order for Mr. Barton’s salary in his pocket, his mind was painfully bent on how he might accomplish the impossible. He was not afraid to go to the senior partner of the store with Mr. Barton’s case, but in the face of the man’s strong objection he was loath to do so. During the balance of the afternoon he devised a number of wild schemes to help the stricken aisle manager, every one of which he renounced as impracticable. It fell to Teddy Burke, however, to present him with an idea that he marveled he had not thought of himself. Harry related the details of his visit to Teddy as they trudged home from work through the snowy night. Although the little boy kept up a running fire of skeptical comment, he was none the less deeply impressed. “I know what I’d do if I was you,” came Teddy’s inspiration. “I’d give a show and then take the money and give it to his nibs.” “A show!” Harry looked startled. “What kind of a show and where could we give it?” “Well, let me see.” Teddy considered owlishly. “Teddy Burke, you’re a real genius. That’s a dandy idea. I’ll see Mr. Keene to-morrow.” “I’d just as soon sing if you want me. That ought to count some,” offered Teddy pompously. “Everybody made a fuss over me when I was in that play last year.” “Oh, you will be the star performer,” promised Harry happily. “We’ll have to hurry to do it, though. It’s only a little over two weeks until Thanksgiving.” “I’ll do my part, if you do yours. If we make a lot of money for old Smarty, who’s had all the smartness taken out of him, we’ll be some folks with the people in the store.” “See here, Ted, I hate to say it, but if we do this we ought not to let anyone know that we were back of it. It would be better to have Mr. Keene and Miss Verne take the credit. We are just boys, you know. If we went around saying “I s’pose that’s so.” Teddy saw his dreams of becoming a public benefactor vanishing in thin air. “Folks might say that a show got up by a coupla kids wasn’t much. We’d better let Mr. Keene and Miss Verne run it. That is, if we have it. Anyhow, I’m going to sing, and believe me, I’ll be some little old singer, just to make up for that time I called Smarty a crank and got you into trouble.” |