The Booming of Acre Hill And Other Reminiscences of Urban and Suburban Life

The time has arrived when it is possibly proper that I should make a note of the base ingratitude of Barkis, M.D.  I have hesitated to do this hitherto for several reasons, any one of which would prove a valid excuse for my not doing so.  To begin with, I have known Barkis ever since he was a baby.  I have tossed him in the air, to his own delight and to the consternation of his mother, who feared lest I should fail to catch him on his way down, or that I should underestimate the distance between the top of his head and the ceiling on his way up.  Later I have held him on my knee and told him stories of an elevating nature—­mostly of my own composition—­and have afterwards put these down upon paper and sold them to syndicates at great profit.  So that, in a sense, I am beholden to Barkis for some measure of my prosperity.  Then, when Barkis grew older, I taught him the most approved methods of burning his fingers on the Fourth of July, and when he went to college I am convinced that he gained material aid from me in that I loaned him my college scrap-books, which contained, among other things, a large number of examination papers which I marvel greatly to-day that I was ever able successfully to pass, and which gave to him some hint as to the ordeal he was about to go through.  In his younger professional days, also, I have been Barkis’s friend, and have called him up, to minister to a pain I never had, at four o’clock in the morning, simply because I had reason to believe that he needed four or five dollars to carry him through the ensuing hours of the day.

Quotation books have told us that in love, as well as in war, all is fair, and if this be true Barkis’s ingratitude, the narration of which cannot now give pain to any one, becomes, after all, nothing more than a venial offence.  I do not place much reliance upon the ethics of quotation books generally, but when I remember my own young days, and the things I did to discredit the other fellow in that little affair which has brought so much happiness into my own life, I am inclined to nail my flag to the masthead in defence of the principle that lovers can do no wrong.  It is no ordinary stake that a lover plays for, and if he stacks the cards, and in other ways turns his back upon the guiding principles of his life, blameworthy as he may be, I shall not blame him, but shall incline rather towards applause.

On the other hand, something is due to the young ladies in the case, and as much for their sake as for any other reason have I set upon paper this narrative of the man’s ingratitude, simply telling the story and drawing no conclusions whatever.

Barkis was not endowed with much in the way of worldly possessions.  His father had died when the lad was very young, and had left the boy and his mother to struggle on alone.  But there was that in both of them which enabled the mother to feel that the boy was worth struggling for, and the boy at a very early age to realize the difficulties of the struggle, and to like the difficulties because they afforded him an opportunity to help his mother either by not giving her unnecessary trouble or in bringing to her efforts in their mutual behalf aid of a very positive kind.

Boys of this kind—­and in saying this I cast no reflections whatsoever upon that edifying race of living creatures whom I admire and respect more than any other—­are so rare that it did not take the neighbors of the Barkis family many days to discover that the little chap was worth watching, and if need be caring for in a way which should prove substantial.  There are so many ways, too, in which one may help a boy without impairing his self-reliance that on the whole it was not very difficult to assist Barkis.  So when one of his neighbors employed him in his office at a salary of eight dollars a week, when other boys received only four for similar service, the lad, instead of feeling himself favored, assumed an obligation and made himself worth five times as much as the other boys, so that really his employer, and not he, belonged to the debtor class.

Some said it was a pity that little Barkis wasted his talents in a real estate office, but they were the people who didn’t know him.  He expended his nervous energy in the real estate office, but his mind he managed to keep free for the night school, and when it came to the ultimate it was found that little Barkis had wasted nothing.  He entered college when several other boys—­who had not served in a real estate office, who had received diplomas from the high-school, and who had played while he had studied—­failed.

That his college days were a trial to his mother every one knew.  She wished him to keep his end up, and he did—­and without spending all that his mother sent him, either.  The great trouble was that at the end of his college course it was understood that Barkis intended studying medicine.  When that crept out the neighbors sighed.  They deprecated the resolve among themselves, but applauded the boy’s intention to his face.

“Good for you, Jack!” said one.  “You are just the man for a doctor, and I’ll give you all my business.”

This man, of course, was a humorist.

Another said:  “Jack, you are perfectly right.  Real estate and coal are not for you.  Go in for medicine; when my leg is cut off you shall do the cutting.”

To avoid details, however, some of which would make a story in themselves, Jack Barkis went through college, studied medicine, received his diploma as a full-fledged M.D., and settled down at Dumfries Corners for practice.  And practice did not come!  And income was not.

It was plainly visible to the community that Barkis was hard up, as the saying is, and daily growing more so.  To make matters worse, it was now impossible to help him as the boy had been helped.  He was no longer a child, but a man; and the pleasing little subterfuges, which we had employed to induce the boy to think he was making his way on his own sturdy little legs, with the man were out of the question.  His clothing grew threadbare, and there were stories of insufficient nourishment.  As time went on the outward and visible signs of his poverty increased, yet no one could devise any plan to help him.

And then came a solution, and inasmuch as it was brought about by the S.F.M.E., an association of a dozen charming young women in the city forming the Society for Mutual Encouragement, or Enjoyment, or Endorsement, or something else beginning with E—­I never could ascertain definitely what the E stood for—­it would seem as if the young ladies should have received greater consideration than they did when prosperity knocked at the Doctor’s door.

It seems that the Doctor attended a dance one evening in a dress coat, the quality and lack of quantity of which were a flagrant indication of a sparse, not to say extremely needy, wardrobe.  All his charm of manner, his grace in the dance, his popularity, could not blind others to the fact that he was ill-dressed, and the girls decided that something must be done, and at once.

“We might give a lawn fete for his benefit,” one of them suggested.

“He isn’t a church or a Sunday-school,” Miss Daisy Peters retorted.  “Besides, I know Jack Barkis well enough to know that he would never accept charity from any one.  We’ve got to help him professionally.”

“We might boycott all the fellows at dances,” suggested Miss Wilbur, “unless they will patronize the Doctor.  Decline to dance with them unless they present a certificate from Jack proving that they are his patients.”

“Humph!” said Miss Peters.  “That wouldn’t do any good.  They are all healthy, and even if they did go to Jack for a prescription the chances are they wouldn’t pay him.  They haven’t much more money than he has.”

“I am afraid that is true,” assented Miss Wilbur.  “Indeed, if they have any at all, I can’t say that they have given much sign of it this winter.  The Bachelors’ Cotillon fell through for lack of interest, they said, but I have my doubts on that score.  It’s my private opinion they weren’t willing or able to pay for it.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what we can do to help Jack.  If he had our combined pocket-money he’d still be poor,” sighed Miss Peters.

“He couldn’t be induced to take it unless he earned it,” said little Betsy Barbett.  “You all know that.”

“Hurrah!” cried Miss Peters, clapping her hands ecstatically; “I have it!  I have it!  I have it!  We’ll put him in the way of earning it.”

And they all put their heads together, and the following was the result: 

The next day Jack Barkis’s telephone rang more often in an hour than it had ever done before in a month, and every ring meant a call.

The first call was from Miss Daisy Peters, and he responded.

“I’m so sorry to send for you—­er—­Doctor,” she said—­she had always called him Jack before, but now he had come professionally—­“for—­for—­Rover, but the poor dog is awfully sick to-day, and Doctor Pruyn was out of town.  Do you mind?”

“Certainly not, Daisy,” he replied, a shade of disappointment on his face.  I am inclined to believe he had hoped to find old Mr. Peters at death’s door.  “If the dog is sick I can help him.  What are his symptoms?”

And Miss Peters went on to say that her cherished Rover, she thought, had malaria.  He was tired and lazy, when usually he rivalled the cow that jumped over the moon in activity.  She neglected to say that she had with her own fair hands given the poor beast a dose of sulphonal the night before—­not enough to hurt him, but sufficient to make him appear tired and sleepy.

“I must see my patient,” said the Doctor, cheerfully.  “Will he come if I whistle?”

Miss Peters was disinclined to accede to this demand.  She was beginning to grow fearful that Jack would see through her little subterfuge, and that the efforts of the S.F.M.E. would prove fruitless.

“Oh,” she demurred, “is that—­er—­necessary?  Rover isn’t a child, you know.  He won’t stick out his tongue if you tell him to—­and, er—­I don’t think you could tell much from his pulse—­and—­”

“I’d better see him, though,” observed Jack, quietly.  “I certainly can’t prescribe unless I do.”

So Rover was brought out, and it was indeed true that his old-time activity had been superseded by a lethargy which made the wagging of his tail a positive effort.  Still, Doctor Barkis was equal to the occasion, prescribed for the dog, and on his books that night wrote down a modest item as against Mr. Billington Peters and to his own financial credit.  Furthermore, he had promised to call again the next day, which meant more practice.

On his return home he found a hurry call awaiting him.  Miss Betsy Barbett had dislocated her wrist.  So to the Barbett mansion sped Doctor Barkis, and there, sure enough, was Miss Barbett apparently suffering greatly.

“Oh, I am so glad you have come,” she moaned.  “It hurts dreadfully, Jack—­I mean Doctor.”

“I’ll fix that in a second,” said he, and he did, although he thought it odd that there were no signs of any inflammation.  He was not aware that one of the most cherished and fascinating accomplishments of Miss Barbett during her childhood had been her ability to throw her wrist out of joint.  She could throw any of her joints out of place, but she properly chose her wrist upon this occasion as being the better joint to intrust to a young physician.  If Jack had known that until his coming her wrist had been all right, and that it had not become disjointed until he rang the front door bell of the Barbett house, he might not have been so pleased as he entered the item against Judge Barbett in his book, nor would he have wondered at the lack of inflammation.

So it went.  The Hicks’s cook was suddenly taken ill—­Mollie Hicks gave her a dollar to do it—­and Jack was summoned.  The Tarletons’ coachman was kept out on a wet night for two hours by Janette Tarleton, and very properly contracted a cold, for which the young woman made herself responsible, and Doctor Barkis was called in.  Then the society itself discovered many a case among the worthy poor needing immediate medical treatment from Barkis, M.D., and, although Jack wished to make no charge, insisted that he should, and threatened to employ some one else if he didn’t.

By degrees a practice resulted from this conspiracy of the S.F.M.E., and then a municipal election came along, and each candidate for the Mayoralty was given quietly to understand by parties representing the S.F.M.E., that unless Jack Barkis was made health officer of the city he’d better look out for himself, and while both candidates vowed they had made no pledges, each had sworn ten days before election-day by all that was holy that Barkis should have this eighteen-hundred-dollar office—­and he got it!  Young women may not vote, but they have influence in small cities.

At the end of the second year of the S.F.M.E.’s resolve that Barkis must be cared for he was in receipt of nearly twenty-eight hundred dollars a year, could afford a gig, and so command a practice; and having obtained his start, his own abilities took care of the rest.

And then what did Jack Barkis, M.D., do?  When luxuries began to manifest themselves in his home—­indeed, when he found himself able to rent a better one—­whom did he ask to share its joys with him?

Miss Daisy Peters, who had dosed her dog that he might profit?  No, indeed!

Miss Betsy Barbett, who disfigured her fair wrist in his behalf?  Alas, no!

Miss Hicks, who had spent a dollar to bribe a cook that he might earn two?  No, the ungrateful wretch!

Any member of the S.F.M.E.?  I regret to say not.

He went and married a girl from Los Angeles, whom he met on one of the summer vacations the S.F.M.E. had put within his reach—­a girl from whom no portion of his measure of prosperity had come.

Such was the ingratitude of Barkis.  They have never told me so, but I think the S.F.M.E. feel it keenly.  Barkis I believe to be unconscious of it—­but then he is in love with Mrs. Barkis, which is proper; and as I have already indicated, when a man is in love there are a great many things he does not see—­in fact, there is only one thing he does see, and that is Her Majesty, the Queen.  I can’t blame Barkis, and even though I was aware of the conspiracy to make him prosperous, I did not think of the ungrateful phase of it all until I spoke to Miss Peters about his fiancée, who had visited Dumfries Corners.

“She’s charming,” said I.  “Don’t you think so?”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Peters, dubiously.  “But I don’t see why Jack went to Los Angeles for a wife.”

“Ah?” said I.  “Maybe it was the only place where he could find one.”

“Thank you!” snapped Miss Peters.  “For my part, I think the Dumfries Corners girls are quite as attractive—­ah—­Betsy Barbett for instance—­or any other girl in Jack’s circle.”

“Like yourself?” I smiled.

“My!” she cried.  “How can you say such a thing?”

And really I was sorry I had said it.  It seemed so like twitting a person on facts, when I came to think about it.