第71章

It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook hospital and its belongings.

"It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they do."

"I guess they're all right fer simple cases," agreed Ben, "but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh got to come 'ere. Look at yerself!"

"Arrah! an' that was the docthor, Hivin be swate to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! Talk about yer white min! Talk about yer prachers an' the like! There's a man fer ye, an' there's none to measure wid him in the mountains!"

"Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?" inquired Ben, with fine scorn.

"Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters av his name.

An' whin ye find a man to stand forninst him, by the howly poker!

I'll ate him alive, an' so I will."

"Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said Ben, with studied, politeness, "that no doctor can never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doctor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. "But what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh-class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer me!"

"Aw, gwan now wid ye! An' wud ye be afther puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' him the Medical Superintendent av the railway?"

"I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in general," replied Ben, keeping himself firmly in hand, "but I'm talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the Reverend Richard Boyle." Ben's attention to the finer courtesies in conversation always increased with his wrath.

"An' that I'll stick to, for there's no man in these 'ere mountain 'as done more fer this 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard Boyle, Esquire."

"Listen til the monkey! An' what has he done, will ye tell me?"

"Well," said Ben, ignoring Tommy's opprobrious epithet, "I hain't got a day to spend, but, to begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere which--"

"Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women a place to say their prayers an' show their hats?"

"As I was sayin'," continued Ben, "there's two churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' I hain't no scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you"--here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's face--"I tell you she puts them churches above even this 'ere hinstitution!" And Ben sat back in his chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was without reply, for anything savouring of criticism of Miss Margaret or her opinions was impossible to him.

"An' what's more," continued Ben, "this 'ere hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' them that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh!"

And still Tommy remained silent.

"An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the same."

"Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?"

"Yes, that's w'at I 'ear," conceded Ben. "But e'll soak 'em good at poker."

"Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy enthusiastically.

"An' it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid lights'--"

"'Red lights'? interrupted Ben. "Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the 'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'."

"Who did, thin?"

"Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man."

"Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape."

"Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. "An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!"

"Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?"

"No," said Ben, "I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't."

"Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane."

"My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!" cried Ben, whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.

"Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a batin'!"

"I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," replied Ben scornfully, "but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But as fer this 'ere preacher--"

"Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's worth--"

"Now, Mr, Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!" Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. "I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere hinstitution--"