The usual crowd came out that afternoon and drank water and sat around the fire and complained—­all except Senator Biggs, who happened in just as I was pouring melted butter over a dish of hot salted pop-corn.  He stood just inside the door, sniffling, with his eyes fixed on the butter, and then groaned and went out.

He looked terrible—­his clothes hung on him like bags; as the bishop said, it was ghastly to see a convexity change to such a concavity in three days.

Mr. Moody won three dollars that day from the slot-machine and was almost civil to his wife, but old Jennings sat with his foot on a stool and yelled if anybody slammed the door.  Mrs. Hutchins brought him out with her eyes red and asked me if she could leave him there.

“I’m sorry if I was rude to you the other night, Minnie,” she said, “but I was upset.  I’m so worn-out that I’ll have to lie down for an hour, and if he doesn’t get better soon, I—­I shall have to have help.  My nerves are gone.”

At four o’clock Mr. Sam came in, and he had Mr. Thoburn tight by the arm.

“My dear old chap,” he was saying, “it would be as much as your life’s worth.  That ground is full of holes and just now covered with snow—!”

He caught my eye, and wiped his forehead.

“Heaven help us!” he said, coming over to the spring, “I found him making for the shelter-house, armed with a foot rule!  Somebody’s got to take him in hand—­I tell you, the man’s a menace!”

“What about the doctor?” I asked, reaching up his glass.

“Be here to-night,” he answered, “on the—­”

But at that minute a boy brought a telegram down and handed it to him.  The new doctor was laid up with influenza!

We sat there after the others had gone, and Mr. Sam said he was for giving up the fight, only to come out now with the truth would mean such a lot of explaining and a good many people would likely find it funny.  Mr. Pierce came in later and we gave him the telegram to read.

“I don’t see why on earth they need a doctor, anyhow,” he said, “they’re not sick.  If they’d take a little exercise and get some air in their lungs—­”

“My dear fellow,” Mr. Sam cried in despair, “some people are born in sanatoriums, some acquire them, and others have them thrust upon them—­I’ve had this place thrust upon me.  I don’t know why they want a doctor, but they do.  They balked at Rodgers from the village.  They want somebody here at night.  Mr. Jennings has the gout and there’s the deuce to pay.  Some of them talk of leaving.”

“Let ’em leave,” said Mr. Pierce.  “If they’d go home and drink three gallons of any kind of pure water a day—­”

“Sh!  That’s heresy here!  My dear fellow, we’ve got to keep them.”

Mr. Pierce glanced at the telegram and handed it back.

“Lot’s of starving M. D.’s would jump at the chance,” he said, “but if it’s as urgent as all this we can’t wait to hunt.  I’ll tell you, Van Alstyne, there’s a chap down in the village he was the character man with the Sweet Peas Company—­and he’s stranded there.  I saw him this morning.  He’s washing dishes in the depot restaurant for his meals.  We used to call him Doc, and I’ve a hazy idea that he’s a graduate M. D.—­name’s Barnes.”