Stanford Stories: Tales of a Young University. Will Irwin
"What's the matter?"
"We don't know. He's afraid it's appendicitis."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Mason, the baritone; "it's heart trouble. I wouldn't believe that man Van under a triple oath, if there were a skirt in the case."
"You won't have to search far in this case," laughed a deep bass voice behind a cool stein.
"Oh, I don't think so," protested Perkins; "he looked bad, bad. I think it's square enough."
"Don't you believe him a minute. I'll bet it's a fake, pure and simple."
"He couldn't expect to work one on us."
"Why not? The time the Mandolin Club went North with the Berkeley Glee somebody played the same blooming game. It worked all right then and they joshed the life out of the leader, too. I heard Shirlock tell about it."
The Freshman should never have allowed himself to go to sleep so easily. By the time Perkins and Mason tiptoed up to his room, he was sprawled out on his back, snoring with a healthfulness that was positively vulgar. Mason gave the leader a significant punch and drew him down the hall to his room.
"See here, Perk," he said, "if he keeps up that gag to-morrow I have a scheme that is a pipe."
The invalid wore a woe-begone expression when the two fellows went in before breakfast.
"Are you any better?" asked Perkins.
"No," said Van, miserably. "The pain is just as bad. I guess I'll have to see a doctor after all."
"How did you sleep?" inquired Perkins.
"Bum. My fever was high all night," moaned the sufferer. "I heard you fellows come up, and I hoped someone might drop in. I suppose you were all too sleepy."
"Yes," said Mason, with a side look at Perkins, "everybody went right to sleep."
"Well," said the leader, "we'll go down to breakfast now, and then we will get a doctor to see you before we have to go."
Neither of them stopped to eat. They hurried first to the Polyclinic. There Perkins asked for the name of one or two physicians who were known to have little practice, and who could afford to take charge of a man who would require constant attention for a week, a middle-aged person preferred.
The man in charge gave them three names and addresses. They went first to a Doctor Mead, who displayed his shingle in a quiet street. He was a big, slow-spoken man, somewhat shabbily dressed.
Jimmy Mason approached him with such hesitation in his voice as befitted the part he was playing. They wanted the doctor on a delicate matter, he explained; it was a private affair which lay very near to them, Perkins added.
"You see," said Jimmy, "we're all cut up. Poor little devil——" and his voice broke artistically, while Perkins forebore to grin.
"Perhaps the case is not so grave as it seems," said the doctor, with professional calm.
"I don't see how it could be any worse." Jimmy controlled his emotion with an effort. "If it were just common sickness, but—but he's lost some of his buttons—bughouse, crazy you know—" his giggle turned into a sob again, and Perkins, bearing up under his trouble, took the thread of the story.
"You see, Doctor, we are musicians from Stanford, travelling through here; something has happened to one of our party; I don't know what's the matter: some hallucination."
"It struck him first at Santa Barbara," said Mason. "He thought that he was very ill one evening when he was tired; said he was sure he was coming down with appendicitis. We sent for Doctor——"
"Brown," filled in Perkins with presence of mind.
"A very able man; he stands high in the profession," said the doctor gravely.
All three being thus established on a common basis of mendacity, the head liar proceeded:
"The doctor couldn't find anything the matter, but the boy—he's only a Freshman, you see—he raised Cain that night; next day he said he was as well as ever. It's been like that ever since, Doctor. One hour he's himself and then he goes to bed and swears he's sick and wants medicines. We didn't get onto him until last night, when the poor kid got to acting loco at the concert."
Perkins played chorus at discreet intervals.
"I haven't telegraphed to his people because I wouldn't distress them till we knew. We must go on with the trip now, and we can't spare any of our men because we took no substitutes; we strike this place again in a week. You will be paid well for any services, and furnished a room at the hotel. Now, Doctor, can you arrange with your patients so that he will have your undivided time?"
("Bet you haven't any to arrange with," was the unspoken thought of both men.)
Dr. Mead pondered.
"We come to you," Jimmy put in, "because we need someone on whom we can rely, a man of skill and tact."
"It happens," said the doctor after minutes of profound deliberation, "that I have no necessary calls to make until Saturday this week. What I have to do can be managed over the telephone, and I presume patients can call upon me at the hotel as well as here. Now, what are the exact particulars of your friend's aberration?"
"Can you walk up to the hotel with us, Doctor?" asked Mason, looking at his watch. "Our train leaves at ten-fifteen; we have very little time left."
On the way the two gave to the unfortunate Freshman such peculiarities, idiosyncrasies and hallucinations as seemed good; they warned the physician that he must never be left alone, and that he ought to be humored to the top of his bent in regard to his fancied attack of appendicitis.
"Then it's understood?" said Mason, as they came down the hall toward Van Dyke's room. "Of course we can't speak of the matter before him."
"Yes," said the doctor, "I think I can manage everything. You will explain to the clerk in the office the peculiar character of your friend's illness, and I shall have no trouble, I am sure."
"All right," said Perkins, and they entered. There were several of the club in the room saying good-bye. At the entrance of the physician they filed out.
"Where have you the most pain, Mr. Van Dyke?" began Dr. Mead.
"Here," said Van, without a blush.
The physician pressed his fingers upon the afflicted region, felt Van's pulse and forehead and gravely examined his tongue; then he turned to the two men and said:
"It is probably appendicitis. The boy must stay in bed for the present."
"Hate to leave you, Van," Mason said, taking the sick man's hand gently; "but it's almost train time. Take care of yourself and do as the doctor says, and you'll be O. K."
"Good-bye, old man," said Perkins. "Have 'em telegraph right along; we shall want to know just how you are. We shall have to cut the string quartet, and that's pretty hard with Pellams out of the trip, but don't feel bad about that. You'll be nifty by the time we are on for the return concert."
"Good-bye," said the man with appendicitis, assuming the look of one who may be taking his last farewell of earthly things. "I shall come out all right, I'm sure I shall."
"Course. Good-bye. Doctor, look out for him."
"Send up some paper from the office, will you?" murmured the Freshman wearily. "I—I think I want to write to my mother."
Ten minutes later the bell-boy brought the paper and a Bible.
Dr. Mead arranged the bedclothes with a practised hand, then he sent out for medicine and chatted affably until the stuff arrived. Van submitted to a plaster on his abdomen and alternated messes for half-hour intervals. He was contented enough. Early afternoon would be a good time to find Dolores.
The doctor settled himself