It was in the Doctor's own office that he told me this story. He has told me a dozen more, all pulled from the rag-bag of his experience, like strands of worsted from an old-fashioned reticule. Some were bright-colored, some were gray and dull—some black; most of them, in fact, sombre in tone, for the Doctor has spent much of his life climbing up the rickety stairs of gloomy tenements. Now and then there comes out a thread of gold which he weaves into the mesh of his talk—some gleam of pathos or heroism or unselfishness, lightening the whole fabric. This kind of story he loves best to tell.

The Doctor is not one of your new-fashioned doctors quartered in a brownstone house off the Avenue, with a butler opening the door; a pair of bob-tailed grays; a coupÉ with a note-book tucked away in its pocket bearing the names of various millionnaires; an office panelled in oak; a waiting-room lined with patients reading last month's magazines until he should send for them. He has no such abode nor belongings. He lives all alone by himself in an old-fashioned house on Bedford Place—oh, Such a queer, hunched-up old house and such a quaint old neighborhood poked away behind Jefferson Market—and he opens the door himself and sees everybody who comes—there are not a great many of them nowadays, more's the pity.

There are only a few such houses left up the queer old-fashioned street where he lives. The others were pulled down long ago, or pushed out to the line of the sidewalk and three or four stories piled on top of them. Some of these modern ones have big, carved marble porticos, made of painted zinc and fastened to the new brickwork. Inside these portals are a row of bronze bells and a line of speaking tubes with cards below bearing the names of those who dwell above.

The Doctor's house is not like one of these. It would have been had it not belonged to his old mother, who died long ago and who begged him never to sell it while he lived. He was thirty years younger then, but he is still there and so is the old house. It looks a little ashamed of its shabbiness when you come upon it suddenly hiding behind its pushing neighbors. First comes an iron fence with a gate never shut, and then a flagged path dividing a grass-plot, and then an old-fashioned wooden stoop with two steps, guarded by a wooden railing (many a day since these were painted); and over these railings and up the supports which carry the roof of the portico straggles a honeysuckle that does its best to hide the shabbiness of the shingles and the old waterspout and sagging gutter, and fails miserably when it gets to the farther cornice, which has rotted away, showing under its dismal paint the black and brown rust of decaying wood.

Then way in under the portico comes the door with the name-plate, and next to it, level with the floor of the piazza or portico—either you please, for it is a combination of both—are two long French windows, always open in summer evenings and a-light on winter nights with the reflection of the Doctor's soft-coal fire, telling of the warmth and cheer within.

For it is a cheery place. It doesn't look like a doctor's office. There are dingy haircloth sofas, it is true, and a row of shelves with bottles, and funny-looking boxes on the mantel—one an electric battery—and rows and rows of books on the walls. But there are no dreadful instruments about. If there are, you don't see them.

The big chair he sits in would swallow up a smaller man. It is covered with Turkey red and has a roll cushion for his head. There are two of these chairs—one for you, or me; this last has big arms that come out and catch you under the elbows, a mighty help to a man when he has just learned that his liver or lungs or heart or some other part of him has gone wrong and needs overhauling.

Then there is a canary that sings all the time, and a small dog—oh, such a low-down, ill-bred, tousled dog; kind of a dog that might have been raised around a lumber-yard—was, probably—one ear gone, half of his tail missing; and there are some pots of flowers, and on the wall near the window where everybody can see is a case of butterflies impaled on pins and covered by a glass. No, you wouldn't think the Doctor's office a grewsome place, and you certainly wouldn't think the Doctor was a grewsome person—not when you come to know him.

If you met him out on Sunday afternoon in his black clothes, white neck-cloth, and well-brushed hat, his gray hair straggling over his coat-collar, pounding his cane on the pavement as he walked, you would say he had a Sunday-school class somewhere. If you should come upon him suddenly, seated before his fire, his gold spectacles clinging to his finely chiselled nose, his thoughtful face bending over his book, you would conclude that you had interrupted some savant, and bow yourself out.

But you must ring his bell at night—say two o'clock A.M.; catch his cheery voice calling through the tube from his bedroom in the rear—"Yes; coming right away—be there soon as I get my clothes on"—feel the strength and sympathy and readiness to help in the man, and try to keep step with him as he hurries on, and then watch him when he enters the sick-room, diffusing hope and cheer and confidence, and listen to the soft, soothing tones of his voice, before you really get at the inside lining of "Doc" Shipman.

All this brings me to the story. Of course, I could have told you the bare facts without giving you an idea of the man and his surroundings, but that wouldn't be fair to you, for you would have missed knowing the Doctor, and I the opportunity of introducing him to you.

We were sitting in the old-fashioned office, then, one snowy night in January, the Doctor leaning back in his chair, his meerschaum pipe in his mouth—the one with the gold cap that a long-ago patient gave him—when he straightened his back and tugged at his fob, bringing to the surface a small gold watch—one I had not seen before.

"Where's the silver one?" I asked, referring to an old silver-backed watch I had seen him wear.

The Doctor looked up and smiled.

"That's in the drawer. I don't wear it any more—not since I got this one back."

"What happened? Was it broken?"

"No, stolen."

"When?"

"Oh, some time ago. Help yourself to a cigar and I'll tell you about it.

"One night last summer I came in late, took off my coat and vest, hung them on a chair by the window and went to bed, leaving the sashes ajar, for it was terribly hot and I wanted a draught of air through from my bedroom."

(I must tell my reader here that the Doctor is a born story-teller and something of an actor as well. He seldom explains his characters or situations as he goes on by putting in "I said" and "he said" and similar expressions. You know by the tones of his voice who is speaking, and his gestures supply the rest.)

"I always carried this watch in my vest-pocket. I carry it now inside my waistband so they will have to pull me to pieces to get it.

"Well, about three o'clock in the morning—I had just heard the old clock in the tower strike, and was dozing off to sleep again—a footstep awoke me to consciousness. I looked through these doors"—here the Doctor was pointing to the folding doors of the office where we sat—"and through my bedroom saw the dim outline of a man moving about this room. He had my vest and trousers over his arm. I sprang up, but he was too quick for me, and before I could reach him he had slipped through the windows out on to the porch, down the yard, through the gate, and was gone.

"With him went my mother's watch, which was in the upper vest-pocket, and some fifty dollars in money. I didn't mind the money, but I did the watch. It was my mother's, a present from my father when they were first married, and had the initials 'E.M.S. from J.H.S.' engraved on the under side of the case. When she died I pasted the dear old lady's photograph inside the upper lid. I know almost everybody around here, and they all know me; they come in here with broken heads for me to sew up, and stab wounds, and such-like misfortunes, and when they heard what had happened to me they all did what they could.

"The Captain of the precinct came around, and everybody was very sorry, and they hunted the pawnshops, and I offered a reward—in fact, did all the foolish things you do when you have lost something you think a heap of. But no trace of the watch could be found, and so I gave it up and tried to forget it and couldn't. That's why I bought that cheap silver one. My only clew to the thief was the glimpse I had of a scar on his cheek and a slight dragging of his foot as he stepped about my room.

"One night last autumn there came a ring at the bell, and I let in a man with a slouch hat pulled over his eyes and the collar of his coat turned up. He was soaking wet, the water oozing from his shoes and slopping the oilcloth in the hall where he stood. I had never seen him before.

"'Doc,' he said, 'I want you.' They all call me 'Doc' around here—especially this kind of a man—and I saw right away where he belonged.

"'What for?'

"'My pal's sick.'

"'What's the matter with him?'

"'Well, he's sick—took bad. He'll die if he don't git help.'

"'Where is he?'

"'Down in Washington Street.'

"'Queer,' I said to myself, 'his wanting me to go two miles from here, when there are plenty of doctors nearer by,' and so I said to him:

"'You can get a doctor nearer than me. I'm waiting for a woman case and may be sent for any minute. Try the Dispensary on Canal Street; they've always a doctor there.'

"'No—we don't want no Dispensary sharp. We want you. Pal's sent me for you—he knows you, but you mightn't remember him.'

"'I'll go.' These are the people I can never refuse. They are on the hunted side of life and don't have many friends. I slipped on my rubbers and coat, picked up my umbrella and my bag with my instruments in it; hung a card in the window so the hall-light would strike it, marked 'Back in an hour'—in case the woman sent for me; locked my door and started after him.

"It was an awful night. The streets were running rivers, the wind rattling the shutters and flattening the umbrellas of everybody who tried to carry one—one of those storms that drives straight at the front of the house, drenching it from chimney to sidewalk. We waited under the gas-lamp, boarded a Sixth Avenue car, and got out at a signal from my companion. During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car, his hat slouched over his eyes, his coat-collar covering his ears. He evidently did not want to be recognized.

"If you know the neighborhood about Washington Street you know it's the last resort of the hunted. When they want to hide, they burrow under one of these rookeries. That's where the police look for them, only they've got so many holes they can't stop them all. Captain Packett of the Ninth Precinct told me the other day that he'd rather hunt a rattlesnake in a tiger's cage than go open-handed into some of the rookeries around Washington Street. I am never afraid in these places; a doctor's like a Sister of Charity or a hospital nurse—they're safe anywhere. I don't believe that other fellow would have stolen my watch if he had known I was a doctor.

"When we left the car at Canal Street, my companion whispered to me to follow him, no matter where he went. We kept along close to the houses, past the dives—the streets, even here, were almost deserted; then I saw him drop down a cellarway. I followed, through long passages, up a creaking pair of stairs, along a deserted corridor—only one gas-jet burning—up a second flight of stairs and into an empty room, the door of which he opened with a key which he held in his hand. He waited until I passed in, locked the door behind us, felt his way to a window, the glow of some lights in the tenements opposite giving the only light in the room, and raised the sash. Then down a fire-escape, across a wooden bridge, which was evidently used to connect the two buildings; through an open door, and up another stairs. At the end of this last corridor my companion pushed open a door.

"'Here's the "Doc,"' I heard him say.

"I looked into a room about as big as this we sit in. It was filled with men, most of them on the floor with their backs to the wall. There was a cot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a cheap kerosene lamp, and one or two chairs. The only other furniture were a flour-barrel and a dry-goods box. On top of the barrel was a tin coffeepot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against the window—there was but one—was tacked a ragged calico quilt, shutting out air and light. Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fell on his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers and undershirt. The shirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him and the floor.

"'Shot?' I asked of the man nearest me.

"'Yes.'

"I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The wound was just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs, and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal.

"The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily built fellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face.

"'Is that you, "Doc"?'

"'Yes, where does it hurt?'

"'"Doc" Shipman—who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?'

"'Yes—now tell me where the pain is.'

"'Let me look at you. Yes—that's him. That's the "Doc," boys. Where does it hurt?—Oh, all around here—back worst'—and he passed his hand over his side.

"I looked him over again, put in a few stitches, and fixed him up for the night. When I had finished he said:

"'Come closer, "Doc"; am I going to die?'

"'No, not this time; you'll pull through. Close shave, but you'll weather it. But you want some air. Here, you fellows'—and I motioned to two men leaning against the quilt tacked over the window—'rip that off and open that window. He's got to breathe—too many of you in here, anyway,'

"One of the men moved the lidless dry-goods box against the wall, picked up the kerosene lamp and placed it inside, smothering its light; the other tore the lower end of the quilt from the sash, letting in the fresh, wet night-air.

"I turned to the wounded man again.

"'You say you've seen me before?'

"'Yes, once. You sewed this up'—and he held up his arm showing a healed scar. 'You've forgot it, but I haven't.'

"'Where?'

"'Bellevue. They took me in there. You treated me white. That's why my pal hunted you up. Say, Bill'—and he called to my companion with the slouch hat—'pay the "Doc."'

"Half a dozen men dove instantly into their pockets, but my companion already had his roll of bills in his hand. He bent over so that the glow of the half-smothered lamp could fall upon his hand, unrolled a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me.

"I passed it back to him. 'I don't want this. Five dollars is my fee. If you haven't anything smaller, wait till I come to-morrow, then you can give me a ten. I'm ready to go now; lead the way out.'

"Next morning I went to see him again. Bill, by arrangement, met me at the corner of the street and took me to the wounded man's room, in and out, by the same route we had taken the night before. I found he had passed a good night, had no fever, and was all right. I left some medicine and directions, got my ten dollars, and never went again.

"Last month, some two days before Christmas, I was sitting here reading—it was after twelve o'clock—when I heard a tap on the window-pane. I pushed aside the shade and looked out a thick-set man motioned me to open the door. When he got inside the hall he said:

"'Ain't forgot me again, have you, "Doc"!'

"'No, you're the man I fixed up in Washington Street last fall.'

"'Yea, that's right, "Doc"; that's me. Can I come in? I got something for you.'

"I brought him in and he sat down on that sofa. Then he pulled out a package from his inside pocket.

"'"Doc,"' he began, 'I was thinking to-night of what you done for me and how you did it, and how decent you've been about it always, and I thought maybe you wouldn't feel offended if I brought you this bunch of scarfpins to take your pick from'—and he unwrapped the bundle. 'There's a pearl one—that might please you—and here's another that sparkles—take your pick, "Doc." It would please me a heap if you would'—and he handed me half a dozen scarfpins stuck in a flannel rag—some of them of great value.

"I didn't know what to say at first. I couldn't get mad. I saw he was in dead earnest, and I saw, too, that it was pure gratitude on his part that prompted him to do it. That's a kind of human feeling you don't want to crush out in a man. When he's got that, no matter what else he lacks, you've got something to build on. I pulled out the pearl pin from the others. I wanted to get time to make up my mind as to what I really ought to do.

"'Very nice pin,' I said.

"'Yes, I thought so. I got it on a Sixth Avenue car. Maybe you'll like the gold one better; take your pick, it's all the same to me. That one you've got in your hand is a good one.' I was slowly looking them over, making up my mind how I would refuse them and not hurt his feelings.

"'How did you get this one?' I asked, holding up the pearl pin.

"'I picked it up outside Cooper Union.'

"'On the sidewalk?'

"'No, from a feller's scarf. I held the cab door for him.' He spoke exactly as if he had been a collector who had been roaming the world for curios. 'Take 'em both, "Doc"—or all of 'em—I mean it.'

"I laid the bundle on the table and said: 'Well, that's very kind of you and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it—but you see I don't wear scarfpins, and if I did I don't think I ought to take these. You see we have two different professions—you've got yours and I've got mine. I saw off men's legs, or I help them through a spell of sickness. They pay me for it in money. You've got another way of making your living. Your patients are whoever you happen to meet. I mightn't like your way of doing, and you mightn't like mine. That's a matter of opinion, or, perhaps, of education. You've got your risks to run, and I've got mine. If I cut too deep and kill a man they can shut me up—just as they can if you get into trouble. But I don't think we ought to mix up the proceeds. You wouldn't want me to give you this five-dollar Bill—and I held up a note a patient had just paid me—'and therefore I don't see how I ought to take one of your pins. I may not have made it plain to you—but it strikes me that way.'

"'Then you ain't mad 'cause I brought 'em?'—and he looked at me searchingly from under his dark eyebrows, his lips firmly set.

"'No, I'm very grateful to you for wanting to give them to me—only I don't see my way clear to take them.'

"He settled back on the sofa and began twirling his hat with his hand. Then he rose from his seat, a shade of disappointment on his face, and said, slowly:

"'Well, "Doc," ain't there something else I can do for you? Man like you must have something you want—something you can't get without somebody's help. Think now—you mightn't see me again.'

"Instantly I thought of my mother's watch.

"'Yes, there is. Somebody came along one night when I was asleep and borrowed my vest hanging over that chair by the window, and my trousers, and my mother's watch was in the vest pocket. If you could help me get that back you would do me a real service—one I wouldn't forget.'

"'What kind of a watch?'

"I described it closely, its inscription, the portrait of my mother in the case, and showed him a copy of her photograph—like the one here. Then I gave him as close a description of the man as I could.

"When I had described the scar on his face he looked at me in surprise. When I added that he had a slight limp, he said, quickly:

"'Short man—with close-cropped hair—and a swipe across his chin. Lost a toe, and stumbles when he walks. I'll see what I can do. He ain't one of our men. He comes from Chicago. He never stays more'n a day or two in any town. Don't none of 'em know him round here. Leave it to me; may take some time—see you in a day or two'—and he went out.

"I didn't see him for a month—not until two nights ago. He didn't ring the bell this time. He came in through the window. I thought the catch was down, but it wasn't. Funny how quick these fellows can see a thing. As soon as he shut the glass sash behind him he drew the curtains close; then he turned down the gas. All this, mind you, before he had opened his mouth. Then he said:

"'Anybody here but you?'

"'No.'

"'Sure?'

"'Yee, very sure.'

"He spoke in a husky, rasping voice, like a man who had caught his breath again after a long run.

"He turned his back to the window, slipped his hand in his hip-pocket and pulled out my mother's watch.

"'Is that it, "Doc"?'

"The light was pretty low, but I'd have known it in the dark.

"'Yes, of course it is—' and I opened the lid in search of the old lady's photo. 'Where did you get it?'

"'Look again. There ain't no likeness.'

"'No, but here are the marks where they scraped it off'—and I held it close to his eyes. 'Where did you get it?'

"'Don't ask no questions, "Doc." I had some trouble gittin' next the goods, and maybe it ain't over yet. I'll know in the morning. If anybody asks you anything about it, you ain't lost no watch—see? Last time you seen me I was goin' West, see—don't forget that. That's all, "Doc." If you're pleased, I'm satisfied.'

"He held out his hand to say good-by, but I wouldn't take it. His appearance, the tone of his voice, and his hunted look made me a little nervous.

"'Sit down. You'll let me pay you for it, won't you? Wait until I go back in my bedroom for some money.'

"'No, "Doc," you can't pay me a cent. I'm sorry they got the mother's picture, but I couldn't catch up with the goods before. That would have been the best part of it for me. Mothers is scarce now—kind you and me had—dead or alive. You won't mind if I turn out the gas while I slip out, do you, and you won't mind either if I ask you to sit still here. Somebody might see you—' and he shook my hand and started for the window. As his hand neared the latch I could see in the dim light that his movements were unsteady. Once he stumbled and clutched at the bookcase for support——

"'Hold on,' I said—and I walked rapidly toward him—'don't go yet—you are not well.'

"He leaned against the bookcase and put his hand to his side.

"I was alongside of him now, my arm under his, guiding him into a chair.

"'Are you faint?'

"'Yes—got a drop of anything, "Doc"? That's all I want. It ain't nothing.'

"I opened my closet, took out a bottle of brandy and poured some into a measuring-glass. He drank it, leaned his head for an instant against my arm and, with the help of my hand slipped under his armpit, again struggled to his feet.

"When I withdrew my hand it was covered with blood. It was too dark to see the color, but I knew from the sticky feeling of it just what it was.

"'My God! man,' I cried; 'you are hurt, your shirt's all bloody. Come back here until I can see what's the matter.'

"'No, "Doc"—no! I tell you. It's stopped bleeding now. It would be tough for you if they pinched me here. Keep away, I tell you—I ain't got a minute to lose. I didn't want to hurt him even after he gave me this one in my back, but his girl was wearing it and there warn't no other way. Git behind them curtains, "Doc." So! Good-by.'

"And he was gone."