But to Sam's dismay the
doctor had gone to Cramm's Mill, six or seven miles away, and would
not be back till the morning. Sam was in a quandary. There was another
doctor at Brookfield, five miles further on, but there was a possibility
that he also might be out.
"Say, there ain't no use goin' back without a doctor.
She'd--she'd--Jumpin' Jeremiah! What would she do? Say, Deck, you've
got to git down to business. We're goin' to the city. There are doctors
there thick as hair on a dog. We'll try Dr. Turnbull. Say, it'll be
great if we could git him! Deck, we'll do it! But you got to git up and
dust."
And this Deck proceeded to do to such good purpose that in about an
hour's time he stood before Dr. Turnbull's door in the city, somewhat
wet, it is true, but with his fiery spirit still untamed.
Here again adverse fate met the unfortunate Sam.
"Doctor Turnbull's no at home," said the maid, smart with cap and apron,
who opened the door.
"How long will he be gone?" enquired Sam, wondering what she had on her
head, and why.
"There's no tellin'. An hour, or two hours, or three."
"Three hours?" echoed Sam. "Say, a feller might kick the bucket in that
time."
The maid smiled an undisturbed smile.
"Bucket? What bucket, eh? What bucket are ye talkin' aboot?" she
enquired.
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