The Story of a Doctor's Telephone—Told by His Wife. Firebaugh Ellen M.

is written here,” said Mary. “Don't say story to me again!” So Mary's story remained unfinished.

      But a few days later, when she was in the buggy with her husband she relented. “Now that the 'phone can't cut me short, John, I will finish about the odd incident just because you wanted to know. But it will fall pretty flat now, as all things do with too many preliminary flourishes.”

      “Go on,” said the doctor.

      “Well, you know I told you I dated my letter back to Sunday afternoon, and was writing away when I heard the door-bell ring. As I started toward the door I saw the laundry man standing there. I was conscious of looking at him in astonishment and in a dazed sort of way as I walked across the large room to open the door. I am sure he must have noticed the expression on my face. When I opened the door he asked as he always does, ‘Any laundry?’”

      “‘Any laundry today?’ The words were on my tongue's end but I stopped them in time. You see it was really Sunday to me, so deep into the spirit of it had I got, and it was with a little shock that I came back to Monday again in time to answer the man in a rational way. And now my story's done.”

      “Not a bad one, either,” said John, “I'm glad you condescended to finish it.”

      The doctor came home at ten o'clock and went straight to bed and to sleep. At eleven he was called.

      “What is it?” he asked gruffly.

      “It's time for Silas to take his medicine and he won't do it.”

      “Won't, eh?”

      “No, he vows he won't.”

      “Well, let him alone for a while and then try again.”

      About one came another ring.

      “We've both been asleep, Doctor, but I've been up fifteen minutes trying to get him to take his medicine and he won't do it. He says it's too damned nasty and that he don't need it anyhow.”

      “Tell him I say he's a mighty good farmer, but a devilish poor doctor.”

      “I don't know what to do. I can't make him take it.”

      “You'll have to let him alone for awhile I guess, maybe he'll change his mind after awhile.”

      At three o'clock the doctor was again at the telephone.

      “Doctor, he just will not take it,” the voice was now quite distressed. “I can't manage him at all.”

      “You ought to manage him. What's a wife for? Well, go to bed and don't bother him or me any more tonight.”

      But early next morning Silas' wife telephoned again.

      “I thought I ought to tell you that he hasn't taken it yet.”

      “He'll get well anyway. Don't be a bit uneasy about him,” said the doctor, laughing, as he rung off.

      “It's time to go, John.”

      Mary was drawing on her gloves. She looked at her moveless husband as he sat before the crackling blaze in the big fireplace.

      “This is better than church,” he made reply.

      “But you promised you would go tonight. Come on.”

      “It isn't time yet, is it?”

      “The last bell will ring before we get there.”

      “Well, let's wait till all that singing's over. That just about breaks my back.”

      Mary sat down resignedly. If they missed the singing perhaps John would not look at his watch and sigh so loud during the sermon. And it might not be a bad idea to miss the singing for another reason. The last time John had gone to church he had astonished her by sliding up beside her, taking hold of the hymn-book and singing! It happened to be his old favorite, “Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood.”

      Of course it was lovely that he should want to sing it with her – but the way he sang it! He was in the wrong key and he came out two or three syllables behind on most of the lines, but undismayed by the sudden curtailment went boldly ahead on the next. And Mary had been much relieved when the hymn was ended and the book was closed. So now she waited very patiently for her husband to make some move toward starting. By and by he got up and they went out. No sooner was the door closed behind them than the “ting-a-ling-ling-ling” was heard. The doctor threw open the door and went back. Mary, waiting at the threshold, heard one side of the dialogue.

      “Yes.”

      “Down where?”

      “Shake up your 'phone. I can't hear you.”

      “That's better. Now what is it?”

      “Swallowed benzine, did she? How much?.. That won't kill her. Give her some warm water to drink. And give her a spoonful of mustard – anything to produce vomiting… She has? That's all right. Tell her to put her finger down her throat and vomit some more… No, I think it won't be necessary for me to come down… You would? Well, let me hear again in the next hour or two, and if you still want me I'll come. Good-bye.”

      They walked down the street and as they drew near the office they saw the figure of the office boy in the doorway silhouetted against the light within. He was looking anxiously in their direction. Suddenly he disappeared and the faint sound of a bell came to their ears. They quickened their pace and as they came up the boy came hurriedly to the door again.

      “Is that you, Doctor?” he asked, peering out.

      “Yes.”

      “I told a lady at the 'phone to wait a minute, she's 'phoned twice.” Mary waited at the door while her husband went into the office and over to the 'phone.

      “Yes. What is it?.. No. No. No!… Listen to me… Be still and listen to me! She's in no more danger of dying than you are. She couldn't die if she tried… Be still, I say, and listen to me!” He stamped his foot mightily. Mary laughed softly to herself. “Now don't hang over her and sympathize with her; that's exactly what she don't need. And don't let the neighbors hang around her either. Shut the whole tea-party out… Well, tell 'em I said so… I don't care a damn what they think. Your duty and mine is to do the very best we can for that girl. Now remember… Yes, I'll be down on the nine o'clock train tomorrow morning. Good-bye.” He joined his wife at the door. “If anybody wants me, come to the church,” he said, turning to the boy.

      Mary laid her hand within her husband's arm and they started on. They met a man who stopped and asked the doctor how soon he would be at the office, as he was on his way there to get some medicine.

      “I'd better go back,” said the doctor and back they went. It seemed to Mary that her husband might move with more celerity in fixing up the medicine. He was deliberation itself as he cut and arranged the little squares of paper. Still more deliberately he heaped the little mounds of white powder upon them. She looked on anxiously. At last he was ready to fold them up! No, he reached for another bottle. He took out the cork, but his spatula was not in sight. Nowise disturbed, he shifted bottles and little boxes about on the table.

      “Can't you use your knife, Doctor?” asked Mary.

      “O, I'll find it – it's around here somewhere.” In a minute or two the missing spatula was discovered under a paper, and then the doctor slowly, so slowly, dished out little additions to the little mounds. Then he laid the spatula up, put the cork carefully back in the bottle, turned in his chair and put two questions to the waiting man, turned back and folded the mounds in the squares with the most painstaking care. In spite of herself Mary fidgeted and when the powders with instructions were delivered and the man had gone, she rose hastily. “Do come now before somebody else wants something.”

      The singing was over and the sermon just beginning when they reached the church. It progressed satisfactorily to the end. The doctor usually made an important unit in producing that “brisk and lively air which a sermon inspires when it is quite finished.” But tonight, a few minutes before the finale came, Mary saw the usher advancing down the aisle. He stopped at their seat