ANOTHER nondescript, whom I occasionally met prowling around among the hills and along the beach, was known as “Doc Looney.” Catfish John said he was a “yarb man,” and that he had been to see him sometimes when he “felt bad.”

Doc seemed to have no fixed abode, and seemed disinclined to talk about one. He had rather a moth-eaten appearance, and wore an old pair of smoke-colored spectacles. He spent a great deal of time around the edges of the little marshes, back of the hills, looking for some particular “potential plant,” which he was never able to find.

He gave me an interesting account of Catfish John’s case, and said he hoped to operate on him in the spring if he didn’t improve. His theory was that the knee-joints had lost the “essential oils” that nature had used for lubrication, and that reinforcements were needed. He intended to “make a cut” in the side of the left knee, and “squirt some animal oil into it.” If this worked, he would “oil up the other leg later.”

The consent of the intended victim of this experimental surgery had not yet been obtained.

He had tried smart-weed tea, slippery elm, and snake-root on John, internally, and fish oil and rat musk externally, without being able to make him stop complaining. The smart-weed was to furnish the compound with the necessary “punch.” The slippery elm was a “possible interior lubricant,” and the snake-root was designed to impart the desired “sinuousness and mobility” to the affected joints. The fish oil, applied to the outside, was also to provide possible lubrication, and the addition of the rat musk was intended “to drive it in.”

Before resorting to the operation, he was willing to try the mysterious herb that he had been looking for all summer. Possibly this might fix John up all right if he wouldn’t consent to the operation. Doc hoped, however, that the operation could be arranged, as he had “never performed one on a leg, and would like to try it.”

He believed that everybody, even when the general health was good, should “take some powerful remedy occasionally. It would explore the system for imperfections, find disease in unsuspected localities, and probably eradicate it before it had a chance to form. Whatever the remedy was good for would be headed off and it was best to take no chances.” He thought that the medicine used “should have some bromide in it.” He did not know exactly what the bromide did, but “anyway its a dam’ good chemical, and it ought to be used whenever possible.”

He had what he called a “spring medicine” which I could have for half a dollar. He stated that the compound contained “ten different and distinct sovereign remedies and the bottle must be kept securely corked.” The remedies were all “secret,” and “seven of them were very powerful.” He had known of cases “in which a few doses had destroyed two or three diseases at once, and had undoubtedly prevented others.” Used externally, it “made an excellent liniment for bruises and sprains.” It was also “good to rub on eruptions of any kind.”

He thought that a little whisky might help a patient of his if he could get it to him that afternoon, and asked if I “happened to carry any.” He suggested that I bring some the next time I “happened along, as it might be very useful.” He seldom used it himself, except when he had “stummick cramps,” but these were “likely to come on ’most any time”—in fact he had had quite a severe attack about an hour before, and this was what had reminded him of it.

He told me a long story about his matrimonial troubles. He had been married twice, to unappreciative mates. To use his own expression, he had been “fired” in both instances, but they were now trying to find him again. He was a much abused man. He had been badly “stung,” and was now “hostile toward all females.” He did not intend to get caught in their toils again—and probably there is not much danger that he will be.

My private sympathies were entirely with these unknown irate women who had resorted to the radical methods of which Doc complained.

He had met with some very difficult cases during the past few years. Some of them “presented symptoms which had never been heard of before.” In such cases it was his custom to give the patient “a certain solution that would produce convulsions,” and, as he was “particularly strong on convulsions,” he was usually “able to cure these in a short time.” When the convulsions stopped, the unknown symptoms would usually disappear.

He had endeavored several times to get Catfish John to try this method, “but for some reason he didn’t want to do it.” His fees in John’s case had consisted of the entrÉe of the smoke-house that contained the fish which had become too dead to be peddled. He did not think much of the fish, but declared that he had got a large one there the week before, “an’ some of it was all right.”

Sipes once suggested to John that he smoke some fish “’specially fer the Doc,” and if he was not willing to do it, he would come up some day and do it himself. He would “smoke some that ’ud finish the Doc in a few hours.” John objected to this and thought that the “Doc ought to have the same kind o’ smoked fish that other people got.” Sipes replied that this was “pufectly satisfactory” to him.

After discoursing at length on some wonderful cures which he had effected, in cases that “the reg’lar doctors had given up,” and the “marvelous potentialities” of some of his secret herb extracts, and “saline infusions, even when given in small doses,” Doc would disappear in the gray landscape—probably absorbed in his reflections upon the “general cussedness of womankind” and the futility of medical schools.

I was always apprehensive when he went in John’s direction, but as the old fisherman looked comparatively well when I last saw him, it was evident that Doc had not yet operated.

“You know it’s far be it from me to knock anybody,” said Sipes one morning, “but this Doc Looney gives me a big chill. He’s always moseyin’ around, an’ never seems to be goin’ anywheres.

“Oncet ’e come here an’ borrowed a kittle. He took it off up the shore, an’ that night I seen ’im with a little fire that ’e’d built on the sand up next to the bluff, near some logs. He was roostin’ on one o’ the logs, studyin’ sumpen that was in the kittle. I sneaked up unbeknown, an’ watched ’im fer a long time. He kept puttin’ weeds an’ han’fulls o’ buds in the kittle an’ stirrin’ the mess with

a stick. Every little while ’e’d taste o’ the dope by coolin’ the end o’ the stick an’ lickin’ it. Before I seen ’im doin’ this I thought ’e might be mixin’ pizen. He was mixin’ sumpen all right, fer after a while ’e got the kittle offen the fire an’ let it cool a little; then ’e dreened it into a flat bottle through a little birch bark funnel, an’ hid the bottle under a log, an’ covered it up with sand. He took my kittle an’ stowed it in some thick brush, an’ went off up the ravine.

“He’s bin doctorin’ ol’ Catfish, an’ ’e’s always talkin’ ’bout operatin’ on ’im. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with the Catfish, ’cept ’e’s got cricks in ’is legs, an’ they bend out when ’e walks. All ’e needs to do is to set down instid o’ standin’ up, and ’is legs won’t bother ’im. He comes along ’ere oncet in a while, with that ol’ honey cart that ’e loads them much deceased fish into that ’e peddles. It ain’t no rose garden, an’ I always stay to wind’ard when ’e’s ’round. The next time ’e comes I’m goin’ to tell ’im wot I seen the Doc doin’. The first thing Catfish knows Doc’ll dope ’im with that stuff in the bottle, an’ then go after ’im with a knife. There ought to be a law aginst fellers like that. He’s full o’ bats, an’ ’e ought to be put som’eres where they could fly without scarin’ people.

“I never got my kittle back. I went an’ looked where I seen ’im hide it, but ’e’d got to it first, an’ I ain’t seen it since. The next time the Doc comes up ’ere fer a kittle ’e’ll git it out o’ the air, an’ ’e’ll recollect it the rest of ’is life.

“There was a funny lookin’ female come along the beach a couple o’ years ago. She asked me if I’d ever seen a man ’round ’ere with colored glasses, an’ I’ll bet she was on the trail o’ the Doc. She had three or four long wire pins stickin’ through a pie shaped bunnit, with a dead bird on it. She didn’t look good to me an’ I’d hate to ’a’ bin the Doc if she ever got to ’im. I told ’er I wasn’t acquainted with no such person. I may not like the Doc, but I wouldn’t steer nothin’ like that ag’inst ’im, even if ’e did swipe my kittle. She asked me about a thousand questions. The lake was calm an’ there was a lot o’ places out on it where some breeze was puffin’, an’ there was a lot of other places where it was all still an’ glassy. She wanted to know what made them little smooth spots, an’ I told ’er that them places showed where I cut ice out last winter.”

Catfish John said one day that “the feller that hates the Doc the worst ’round ’ere is Sipes. He gave Sipes some medicine oncet when ’e was feelin’ poorly. It was some ’e’d bin usin’ fer a horse. He said Sipes ’ad got pips, an’ would need a lot o’ doctorin’. He kept takin’ it fer about a week, an’ when ’e went out on the beach one day ’e thought ’e met ’imself comin’ back, an’ ’e quit takin’ it. I guess the dope was too strong fer ’im. After that they had a fuss about sumpen else, an’ the old man didn’t have no use fer ’im. Sipes located a big hornet’s nest som’eres up in the woods. He went thar one dark night an’ slipped a bag over it so the hornets couldn’t git out, an’ carried it into the ravine to a little path that the Doc always used when ’e went to see Sipes. He fastened it in a bush, close to the path, so the Doc ’ud flush ’em when ’e come by. He come through several times but thar was nothin’ doin. Sipes said the reason they didn’t sting the Doc was that they was all friends o’ his, an’ they was all the same kind o’ critters ’e was. He hoped they’d swarm on the Doc an’ chase ’im out o’ the county, but like a lot of ’is plans it didn’t work.”

Sipes’s theory of the existence of a state of natural affinity between Doc and a nest of hornets, seemed to amuse old John immensely.

“The Doc seems to think I’m goin’ to let ’im tinker my knee, but I ain’t. He gen’rally leaves some dope that ’e cooks up ’imself fer me to take, when ’e comes up ’ere, but I throw most of it out back o’ the smoke-house. I let ’im leave it fer I don’t want to make ’im feel bad. He keeps whettin’ a funny lookin’ knife when ’e’s ’ere, an’ hintin’ about sumpen ’e wants to try on my leg, but I ain’t goin’ to have no cuttin’ done. I’ve got a new cure that I’m tryin’ now, that I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about.”

One cloudy day during the following fall, my friend Sipes and I went up the shore a few miles, and landed our boat near the opening of a deep heavily wooded ravine, through which a small creek flowed to the lake.

I intended making some sketches in the neighborhood, and Sipes offered to accompany me. He took his gun, as he thought there might be some “patritches” in the ravine.

We pulled the boat well up on the beach, and picked our way along through some pine-trees and underbrush, following a narrow trail that crossed the stream several times. We had proceeded perhaps a couple of hundred yards, when we came to a queer looking structure, built into the side of the ravine, which had been partially hollowed out. It was rudely constructed of planks, short boards, and various odds and ends of building material, which had evidently been gathered up on the beach. It was about twelve feet long and possibly nine feet wide. There were two windows and a door that hung on rusty hinges. One hinge had lamentably failed to meet the necessary requirements and had been reinforced with a heavy piece of leather, which had once been a part of an old boot.

It began to rain, and as the little hut was apparently deserted, and seemed to offer a convenient shelter, we ventured to investigate the interior. After removing a large accumulation of dead leaves and sand in front of the door, we pulled it open and looked in.

There was a small rusty old stove, in a bad state of repair, two broken chairs, and a table in the single room. An irregular row of bottles, of various shapes and sizes, filled a long shelf, and sundry worthless looking utensils were scattered about. At the end of the room was a mildewed husk mattress on some boards which had been nailed to the ends of four pieces of wood, about two feet from the floor. Suspended from nails which were driven along the boards next to the roof, were large bunches of dried plants of various kinds.

“This is ’is nest all right, an’ this is where ’e makes ’is dope,” remarked Sipes, and a minute later he held up a battered looking object, and exclaimed, “Dam’d if ’ere ain’t my kittle!”

We had indeed stumbled upon an abandoned secret retreat of Doc Looney. Like an illicit still, his laboratory had been hidden in untrodden recesses, away from the paths of men. In this quiet spot he could meditate, and compound his mysterious “powerful remedies” with little fear of intrusion by his female pursuers, and out of it he could emerge and roam where his fancy led.

Into this deep seclusion the turmoil of warring schools of medicine, and the abuse of a captious world could not come. His medicines and his theories were beyond criticism. Such a fortress enabled him to concoct ammunition with which to offer battle to the diseases of his kind, without fear of capture and incarceration, which he may or may not richly deserve.

If the motto “similia similibus curantur” be true, some terrible human suffering could be alleviated with some of the stuff we found on the shelf. Many of the bottles were empty, but we removed the stopper from one of them, and regretted it. We were assailed by a pungent and sickening odor. Sipes remarked that “sumpen must ’a’ crawled in that bottle an’ died.” On taking it out to the light we discovered that it was about half filled with angle worms, whose identity was practically gone.

“I know wot that stuff is,” said Sipes, “it’s angle worm ile. That old cuss said oncet ’e was goin’ to squirt some in John’s knees to make ’em supple, when ’e operated on ’im, but John wouldn’t let ’im monkey with ’em.”

There were no labels on the bottles, with the exception of one which was marked “Bromide.” The remaining materia medica could not be identified.

We examined the odd pieces which had been used in building the shanty, with much interest.

The widely scattered driftwood, along the miles of curving sandy shore, suggests many reflections to the imaginative mind. Trees that have been washed from their footholds on the margins of distant forests—logs, slabs, and wasted material of many kinds, incident to man’s destruction in the wilderness—broken and lost timbers from piers, bridges and wrecks—are among the spoils of winds and seas that are relentless.

Nature is as regardless as she is beneficent, and her storms and her sunshine do not discriminate.

Some lonely dweller on the coast may have builded too near the abodes of the water gods, and, in their anger they may have reached out long arms to his humble home, and flung the fruits of his toil among the mysteries of the deep. Some unfortunate bark may have lost its battle with the tempest, and given its sails and timbers to the waves.

When the vagrant breezes found them, they may have wandered for many months on the wide expanse. They may have floated in on the crests of the singing ground swells—touched strange shores and left them—drifted lazily in summer calms, and offered brief respites to tired wings far out on the undulating waters. They may have been buffeted by savage seas under angry skies, and battered among the ice fields by the winter gales.

Like frail and feeble souls, unable to master their course, the lost and worn timbers have been the sport of the varying winds and the playthings of chance. They have at last found refuge and quiet on the desolate sands. Living forces have thrown them aside and gone on.

Sometimes a name, a few letters on a plank, or a frayed piece of canvas, will offer a clue to its origin, and tell a belated story of misfortune somewhere out on the trackless deep.

Outside, on one of the boards used in the construction of the rude little hut, we deciphered the name “Pauline Mahaffy.” It had evidently come from the hull of some proud craft that had once ridden nobly through the white-caps, and dashed the foam and spray before her. Alas, to what a prosaic end had her destiny led her! Immured in a deep ravine, her last sad relic—her honored name—was a part of a disreputable shanty, and her last friend had left it to fade into oblivion.

Even unto his solitude had femininity, in a modified form, pursued poor Looney. Sipes, unpoetic and irreverent, found much joy in the name. He chuckled in his glee, and mingled his mockery with his quaint philosophy.

“Oh, Lord, if only that funny lookin’ female I told ye about, that was huntin’ the Doc, could see this! She’d spend a few seconds on the Doc, an’ the rest of ’er life trackin’ Pauline. She wouldn’t know nothin’ about names on ships, an’ she’d think the Mahaffy woman ’ad snared ’im an’ took ’im away, an’ ’e was that fond of ’er that ’e put ’er name on ’is shanty.

“Mebbe she landed on ’im ’ere, an’ ’e lit out up the ravine. Them that live in this world can make all the trouble fer themselves they want, an’ they don’t need the help o’ nobody else, an’ I’ll bet the Doc thought so too, an’ scooted. ‘Pauline Mahaffy!’ Gosh what a name! Wouldn’t that blow yer hat off? He ought to ’a’ hunted fer a board that ’ad ‘Idler’ or sumpen like that on it that wouldn’t never make no trouble. Most o’ the pleasure boats that gits wrecked is named ‘The Idler.’ They’r mostly run by lubbers, an’ ’e wouldn’t have no trouble findin’ one if ’e wanted a nice name to put on that old dog house. ‘Idler’ ’ud just mean that ’e wasn’t workin’, an’ you bet ’e ain’t, but ‘Pauline Mahaffy’ don’t sound good to me. I seen the old cuss less’n a week ago, an’ ’e must ’ave another coop som’eres else. This ravine ’ud be a good place to set some bear traps ’round in. There’s no knowin’ wot they might ketch.”

When it stopped raining we continued our journey up the ravine to higher ground, and walked through the woods. We finally emerged into the open country, made a long detour, and returned to the boat.

A sketch had been made of the shanty, but we had found no “patritches.” The old man was greatly elated over the recovery of the long lost “kittle.” Its present value was at least questionable, but he was happy, and he had carried it tenderly during the trip.

“When I git home,” said he, “I’ll git some sodder an’ plug it up. If you’ve got some o’ them kind of seegars with you, that you gave me the other day, I think it ’ud be nice fer us to smoke one on the strength o’ me findin’ my kittle.”

The disreputable utensil was stowed carefully in the boat, with the rest of our belongings, and finally reached its rightful home.

The adaptation of particular minds to particular forms of activity is one of the most difficult problems of our highly specialized social structure. Happiness and achievement are largely dependent upon mental and physical harmony between the man and his task. The learned professions, like all other mediums of human activity, carry with them in their progress the “misfits” and the “by-products” which are inseparable from them.

Poor old Doc Looney is both a misfit and a by-product. He is innocently drifting in waters that are beyond his depth, and while he is of little value in the world, his “powerful remedies,” “potential herbs” and “infusions” will probably find but few victims.