University of San Francisco - USF Don Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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8 THE I a SAT I AN lie been versed in the lore of the “Knights of the Road” he would have easily seen by the hieroglyphics on the gate, that shaggy, dust-stained travellers were decidedly unwelcome. Reaching the house he knocked lightly on the door. Receiving no answer, he knocked louder just as the pangs of hunger were doing in his stomach. After a long pause a frowning old man opened the door and gruffly asked: “What ycr doin’ here?” Cut by the rudeness of the old man, the stranger stammered : “Could you give me some work to do for which, in return, I might get something to eat?” “Beggin eh? Wal, b’gosh, ycr won’t beg nothin’ outer David Hiram Jones.” “Sir,” began the stranger, his ire rising, “1 am not begging: I never did beg; I never intend to beg. 1 merely asked for work, in return for which. I requested food. Is there any shame in that?” “Git outer here, ycr tramp”, growled the testy Hiram, emphasizing his command with a rough gesture. “1 ain’t got nuthin’ fer yer.” “Tramp,” repeated the stranger as he withdrew from the house. The word stung. “Vet,” he murmured, “it is true. 1 am a tramp.” Again he plodded through the deepening twilight. Soon lights began to flicker in neighboring farmhouses. One more brightly lighted came into view. As he approached the house he hesitated, then resolved to try his fate. He was about to approach when a man and a woman emerged. The man was saying: “Mrs. Porter,” I have done all within my power. Your daughter has received a severe injury to her spine.” The woman was sobbing wildly. The wav-farer slunk behind a tree. The man continued, “I will hurry to the station and send

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The Return of Doctor Pill Morris Cordon. IT was on one of those warm summer days when a solitary stranger was plodding his weary way along a dusty country road. Mis sunken cheeks told of the lack of needed nourishment: his unkempt hair and scrubby beard proclaimed his contempt for the conventionalities of life; he was so abstracted from his surroundings that he seemed to be going onward, onward, merely because his legs moved mechanically and the road still stretched before him. Going whither? Whither the road led. It was all one to him. He had passed the previous night in an abandoned barn. The burrs that mingled with the half-chewed hay, on which he had lain, si ill clung to his clothing. It had never occurred to him to brush them off. They did not impede his going. Going for what ? To escape himself, as if that might be. He was a tramp from choice. Most tramps are. Why? It was his own secret. He had been a gentleman. That was plain. What had dashed him down? It would be useless to conjecture. But the stoop of his shoulders was not caused, as even a careless observer might have seen, by the miserable bundle that he carried on his back, but by the heavy load that weighed upon his heart. His eyes were fixed upon the road though he scarcely seemed to see it. As evening approached, his steps grew slower; and from time to time lie raised his eyes. Sometimes barren rocky fields, sometimes patches of distant woodland met his gaze. A far-off cabin on a hill offered no invitation; a house miles away presented no attraction to his weary feet. Vet an empty stomach clamoring for food became each moment more insistent. A turn in the road fortunately brought a house in sight, just back from the wayside. It was the only one he had happened on that day. He shifted his pack and waveringly started for it. Had

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THE RETURN OF DR. PILL f) a wire to a specialist in town who, if lie arrives in time, may save her life. Meanwhile, keep up your courage, and remember that while there’s life, there’s hope’.” “Miss Dewey,” said the same voice, “Will you kindly step outside a minute.” The door by which the woman had entered, now swung more widely open and out stepped a young nurse. What the doctor said was in a low voice: “I am sorry to have to leave you alone. The woman is on the verge of collapse and the child is at death’s door. There is practically no hope. Only a very delicate operation can save her. I fear I will be gone several hours .... too long, ” he ad- ded, as he hurried away. Sadly the young woman re-entered the house. The words of the doctor about the “spine” and “the very delicate operation” had in some strange way appealed to the stranger. lie stood in deep thought, in the shadow of a huge sequoia, watching the doctor’s retreating figure. Was it an hour that passed? The stranger could not say. It seemed an age, so fierce the struggle in his soul. Would he? Dared he? Another failure? Another life? But, from the words of the doctor, that life was already doomed if he did not make the trial. lie would make it, come what might to him. With a sudden determination, he brushed off his clothes as best he could, smoothed his hair and beard, and, straightening his hat, with a faltering step he approached the house. He knocked lightly on the door. The knock was answered shortly by the nurse. “I am the specialist that the doctor sent for,” he said. “I’m . . . Doctor Pill. Doctor-er-er . . . .” “Doctor Jones,” supplied the nurse. “Doctor Jones was detained, so I came up alone,” he said in answer to the nurse’s surprised scrutiny. “Miss Dewey, I believe .... let me see the patient.” The stranger pressed his way past the nurse into the house.