For the first time in my life, that night Icouldn't sleep.I thought to myself, at last, that I would get up early, pack a few clothes, and escape, leaving my books to pay as they might my arrears of rent.Looking out of the window, however, in the morning, I saw Stagers prowling about the opposite pavement;and as the only exit except the street door was an alleyway which opened along-side of the front of the house, I gave myself up for lost.About ten o'clock I took my case of instruments and started for File's house, followed, as I too well understood, by Stagers.
I knew the house, which was in a small up-town street, by its closed windows and the craped bell, which I shuddered as I touched.
However, it was too late to draw back, and Itherefore inquired for Mrs.File.A haggard-looking young woman came down, and led me into a small parlor, for whose darkened light I was thankful enough.
``Did you write this note?''
``I did,'' said the woman, ``if you're the coroner.Joe File--he's my husband--he's gone out to see about the funeral.I wish it was his, I do.''
``What do you suspect?'' said I.
``I'll tell you,'' she returned in a whisper.
``I think he was made away with.I think there was foul play.I think he was poisoned.
That's what I think.''
``I hope you may be mistaken,'' said I.
``Suppose you let me see the body.''
``You shall see it,'' she replied; and following her, I went up-stairs to a front chamber, where I found the corpse.
``Get it over soon,'' said the woman, with strange firmness.``If there ain't no murder been done I shall have to run for it; if there was''--and her face set hard--``I guess I'll stay.'' With this she closed the door and left me with the dead.
1
never could have gone into the thing at all.
It looked a little better when I had opened a window and let in plenty of light; for although I was, on the whole, far less afraid of dead than living men, I had an absurd feeling that I was doing this dead man a distinct wrong--as if it mattered to the dead, after all! When the affair was over, I thought more of the possible consequences than of its relation to the dead man himself;but do as I would at the time, I was in a ridiculous funk, and especially when going through the forms of a post-mortem examination.
I am free to confess now that I was careful not to uncover the man's face, and that when it was over I backed to the door and hastily escaped from the room.On the stairs opposite to me Mrs.File was seated, with her bonnet on and a bundle in her hand.
``Well,'' said she, rising as she spoke, and with a certain eagerness in her tone, ``what killed him? Was it poison?''
``Poison, my good woman!'' said I.``When a man has typhoid fever he don't need poison to kill him.He had a relapse, that's all.''
``And do you mean to say he wasn't poisoned,'' said she, with more than a trace of disappointment in her voice--``not poisoned at all?''
``No more than you are,'' said I.``If I had found any signs of foul play I should have had a regular inquest.As it is, the less said about it the better.The fact is, it would have been much wiser to have kept quiet at the beginning.I can't understand why you should have troubled me about it at all.The man had a perforation.It is common enough in typhoid.''
``That's what the doctor said--I didn't believe him.I guess now the sooner I leave the better for me.''
``As to that,'' I returned, ``it is none of my business; but you may rest certain about the cause of your brother's death.''
My fears were somewhat quieted that evening when Stagers and the wolf appeared with the remainder of the money, and Ilearned that Mrs.File had fled from her home and, as File thought likely, from the city also.A few months later File himself disappeared, and Stagers found his way for the third time into the penitentiary.Then Ifelt at ease.I now see, for my own part, that I was guilty of more than one mistake, and that I displayed throughout a want of intelligence.I ought to have asked more, and also might have got a good fee from Mrs.File on account of my services as coroner.It served me, however, as a good lesson; but it was several months before Ifelt quite comfortable.
Meanwhile money became scarce once more, and I was driven to my wit's end to devise how I should continue to live as I had done.
I tried, among other plans, that of keeping certain pills and other medicines, which Isold to my patients; but on the whole I found it better to send all my prescriptions to one druggist, who charged the patient ten or twenty cents over the correct price, and handed this amount to me.
In some cases I am told the percentage is supposed to be a donation on the part of the apothecary; but I rather fancy the patient pays for it in the end.It is one of the absurd vagaries of the profession to discountenance the practice I have described, but Iwish, for my part, I had never done anything more foolish or more dangerous.Of course it inclines a doctor to change his medicines a good deal, and to order them in large quantities, which is occasionally annoying to the poor; yet, as I have always observed, there is no poverty as painful as your own, so that Iprefer to distribute pecuniary suffering among many rather than to concentrate it on myself.
That's a rather neat phrase.
About six months after the date of this annoying adventure, an incident occurred which altered somewhat, and for a time improved, my professional position.During my morning office-hour an old woman came in, and putting down a large basket, wiped her face with a yellow-cotton handkerchief, and afterwards with the corner of her apron.Then she looked around uneasily, got up, settled her basket on her arm with a jerk which may have decided the future of an egg or two, and remarked briskly: ``Don't see no little bottles about; got the wrong stall, I guess.You ain't no homeopath doctor, are you?''
With great presence of mind, I replied:
