Sunlight Patch Part 48

In the library Dale closed his book and stood up. He had overheard this conversation about skin grafting, and now went softly out through the dining-room way, thence to the overseer's cottage. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, he looked in.

In the uncertain glimmer of light cast by the shaded kerosene lamp, sat the doctor, Bradford and Aunt Timmie, each with eyes on the little sufferer. They did not look up, and he pa.s.sed through, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down with the others at the pitiful scene. Nor did they realize he was there until his deep voice drawled:

"Brent says you want healthy skin."

"I do, very much indeed," Stone quickly arose.

"Well, I reckon you can have what you want of mine."

The doctor took up the lamp and held it close to Dale's face.

"Drink?" he asked.

"Never have yet."

Ignoring the presence of Aunt Timmie, he put a few more intimate questions, and a look of gratification crossed his face when the mountaineer had fully answered.

"You'll do," he whispered hopefully. "Don't eat breakfast in the morning, and be here at seven o'clock."

"What's that for?" Dale asked.

"I'll put you under an anaesthetic, and your stomach must be empty."

"What's anaesthetic?"

Doctor Stone explained it.

"And how long will that last?"

"You ought to feel pretty good by noon, maybe sooner."

"But I've got to study in the mornin'!"

"Study, man! Get that notion out of your head. You won't do any studying tomorrow!"

"Then you don't get any skin tomorrow," Dale turned resolutely on his heel. "I've got too much to do, an' too little time to do it, to fool 'round here!"

Stone looked at him in speechless wonder, saying slowly in his surprise:

"I don't understand you!"

Bradford sprang up to entreat, but was pushed roughly aside as the mountaineer started to the door.

"Wait, Mr. Dawson," he implored. "Maybe you kin save her life!"

"I ain't begrudgin' the skin," Dale wheeled on him with savage emphasis, "but time I do begrudge! Get someone else!"

"You miss the importance of this," the doctor was also losing patience.

"I'll only keep you--"

"You won't keep me a minute--'cause I won't give you a minute! There's others who've got skins!" And he pa.s.sed quickly out.

Stone could do no more than glare after him, and he then said something which is not usually said in sick rooms.

"Won' a li'l cullud skin do?" the old nurse looked timidly up at him.

He shook his head; smiling, but sadly.

She sighed. The windows were getting black now; night was settling over the earth; yet this man in whose hands rested the fate of Mesmie walked softly back and forth across the room, muttering:

"I must have good skin."

"I knows whar you kin git good skin," she whispered excitedly, arising and grasping him by the sleeve. "Git in dar-ar churn of yoh'n an' go dis minit to Tom Hewlet's house, den tell Miss Nancy ole Timmie say we'se countin' on her! She'll come, too! Make haste now, man!"

The noise of his little machine was growing faint, when the door opened and Brent stood on the threshold.

"Where's Stone, Aunt Timmie?"

"He's done gone," she sharply answered, for by now her heart was beating with strong resentment against entire mankind. "What you want 'im fer?"

"Nothing, so long as he isn't here," Brent turned away.

But she was following. After all, he did come to the little girl's relief--even though his intimacy with juleps had spoiled the offer. So she called after him in a kinder voice:

"I never said he warn't comin' back! What you want 'im fer, Ma.r.s.e Brent?

Is you sick?"

"No," he gave a short laugh. "It's this way: He couldn't use me on account of my drinking--even little as it now is; and I wanted to ask how long a fellow must be entirely free from it to make his skin a good grafting proposition. If he thinks Mesmie can wait that long, I'll stop to-night and get ready. That's all. Tell him, will you, Aunt Timmie? And let me know? I'll be up stairs pretty soon."

A soft light crept into her face.

"We don' need it now, chile," she murmured. "We'se gwine git some nice, soft lady-like skin. De doctor's done gone arter her!"

"You don't mean Miss Jane!" he turned furiously upon her. "She shan't do it, I tell you!"

"Since when's you had de right to say what she kin do an' what she cyarn' do, I'd lak to know? But," she began to chuckle, "as you 'pears so upsot 'bout it, I'll tell you he ain' gwine arter Miss Jane. Now, better go home, an' not talk so loud!"

Embarra.s.sed, he started toward the house.

"Bress yoh heart," she whispered to herself. "Dar is good in you, arter all--I don' kyeer ef you an' Ma.r.s.e John do toddy too much at times!"

Then, quite suddenly, she asked aloud: "Who sont you back heah dis time?" His first visit she might have attributed to Jane, but Jane had now been gone half an hour. She began to think he had not heard, for he continued walking away; but, at last, his voice came through the gloom:

"The gardener."

"De gyard'ner!" she tried to reach him with her eyes. "What's de use of talkin' dat a-way! De gyard'ner don' never come nigh de house!"

There was another silence. She knew he had stopped now; she knew he was still close in front of the cottage, but her eyes were too poor to make him out in the gathering darkness.

"That's just the trouble, Aunt Timmie," she heard him say. "We don't often let the gardener come in to keep things trim and decent!"