Some one knocked at the door. It was Holmes,
who came to say that the physician, Doctor Longstreet,
had arrived.
“Oh—it is Doctor Longstreet is it?”
said the squire. “Ask him to come up.”
Doctor Longstreet was not the freethinking physician
of Billingsfield. The latter was out when Mr.
Juxon’s groom went in search of him, and the
man had driven on to the town, six miles away.
The doctor was an old man with a bright eye, a deeply
furrowed forehead, a bald head and clean shaved face.
He walked as though his frame were set together with
springs and there was a curious snapping quickness
in his speech. He seemed full of vitality and
bore his years with a jaunty air of merriment which
inspired confidence, for he seemed perpetually laughing
at the ills of the flesh and ready to make other people
laugh at them too. But his bright eyes had a
penetrating look and though he judged quickly he generally
was right in his opinion. He entered the room
briskly, not knowing that the sick man was there.
“Now, Mr. Juxon,” he said cheerfully,
“I am with you.” He had the habit
of announcing his presence in this fashion, as though
his brisk and active personality were likely to be
overlooked. A moment later he caught sight of
the bed. “Dear me,” he added in a
lower voice, “I did not know our patient was
here.”
He went to Walter Goddard’s side, looked at
him attentively, felt his pulse, and his forehead,
glanced at the bandages the squire had roughly put
upon his throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath
his chin and turned sharply round.
“Brain fever, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“Brain fever. You must get some ice and
have some beef tea made as soon as possible. He
is in a very bad way—curious, too; he looks
like a cross between a ticket of leave man and a gentleman.
Tramp, you say? That would not prevent his being
either. You cannot disturb him—don’t
be afraid. He hears nothing—is off,
the Lord knows where, raving delirious. Must look
to his scratches though—dangerous—inflammation.
Do you mind telling me what happened—how
long he has been here?”
The squire in a few words informed Doctor Longstreet
of the attack made upon him in the park. The
doctor looked at his watch.
“Only two hours and a half since,” he
remarked. “It is just midnight now, very
good—the man must have been in a fever all
day—yesterday, too, perhaps. He is
not badly hurt by the dog—like to see that
dog, if you don’t mind—the fright
most likely sent him into delirium. You have
nothing to accuse yourself of, Mr. Juxon: it was
certainly not your fault. Even if the dog had
not bitten him, he would most likely have been in
his present state by this time. Would you mind
sending for some ice at once? Thank you.
It was very lucky for the fellow that he attacked you
just when he did—secured him the chance
of being well taken care of. If he had gone off
like this in the park he would have been dead before
morning.”
