One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

his coat and pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were sometimes examined. Claude explained his predicament.

The ship’s doctor was a strange fellow to come from Canada, the land of big men and rough. He looked like a schoolboy, with small hands and feet and a pink complexion. On his left cheekbone was a large brown mole, covered with silky hair, and for some reason that seemed to make his face effeminate. It was easy to see why he had not been successful in private practice. He was like somebody trying to protect a raw surface from heat and cold; so cursed with diffidence, and so sensitive about his boyish appearance that he chose to shut himself up in an oscillating wooden coop on the sea. The long run to Australia had exactly suited him. A rough life and the pounding of bad weather had fewer terrors for him than an office in town, with constant exposure to human personalities.

“Have you tried him on malted milk?” he asked, when Claude had told him how Farming’s nourishment was threatened.

“Dr. Trueman hasn’t a bottle left. How long do you figure we’ll be at sea?”

“Four days; possibly five.”

“Then Lieutenant Wheeler will lose his pal,” said Dr. Trueman, who had just come in.

Chessup stood for a moment frowning and pulling nervously at the brass buttons on his coat. He slid the bolt on his door and turning to his colleague said resolutely: “I can give you some information, if you won’t implicate me. You can do as you like, but keep my name out of it. For several hours last night cases of eggs and boxes of oranges were being carried into the Chief Steward’s cabin by a flunky of his from the galley. Whatever port we make, he can get a shilling each for the fresh eggs, and perhaps sixpence for the oranges. They are your property, of course, furnished by your government; but this is his customary perquisite. I’ve been on this boat six years, and it’s always been so. About a week before we make port, the choicest of the remaining stores are taken to his cabin, and he disposes of them after we dock. I can’t say just how he manages it, but he does. The skipper may know of this custom, and there may be some reason why he permits it. It’s not my business to see anything. The Chief Steward is a powerful man on an English vessel. If he has anything against me, sooner or later he can lose my berth for me. There you have the facts.”

“Have I your permission to go to the Chief Steward?” Dr. Trueman asked.

“Certainly not. But you can go without my knowledge. He’s an ugly man to cross, and he can make it uncomfortable for you and your patients.”

“Well, we’ll say no more about it. I appreciate your telling me, and I will see that you don’t get mixed up in this. Will you go down with me to look at that new meningitis case?”

Claude waited impatiently in his stateroom for the doctor’s return. He didn’t see why the Chief Steward shouldn’t be exposed and dealt with like any other grafter. He had hated the man ever since he heard him berating the old bath steward one morning. Hawkins had made no attempt to defend himself, but stood like a dog that has been terribly beaten, trembling all over, saying “Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” while his chief gave him a cold cursing in a low, snarling voice. Claude had never heard a man or even an animal addressed with such contempt. The Steward had a cruel face⁠—white as cheese, with limp, moist hair combed back from a high forehead⁠—the peculiarly oily hair that seems to grow only on the heads of stewards and waiters. His eyes were exactly the shape of almonds, but the lids were so swollen that the dull pupil was visible only through a narrow slit. A long, pale moustache hung like a fringe over his loose lips.

When Dr. Trueman came back from the hospital, he declared he was now ready to call on Mr. Micks. “He’s a nasty looking customer, but he can’t do anything to me.”

They went to the Chief Steward’s cabin and knocked.

“What’s wanted?” called a threatening voice.

The doctor made a grimace to his companion and walked in. The Steward was sitting at a big desk, covered with account books. He turned in his chair. “I beg your pardon,” he said coldly, “I do not see anyone here. I will be⁠—”

The doctor held up his hand quickly. “That’s all right, Steward. I’m sorry to intrude, but I’ve something I must say to you in private. I’ll not detain you long.” If he had hesitated for a moment, Claude believed the Steward would have thrown him out, but he went on rapidly. “This is Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr. Micks. His fellow officer lies very ill with pneumonia in stateroom 96. Lieutenant Wheeler has kept him alive by special nursing. He is not able to retain anything in his stomach but eggs and orange juice. If he has these, we may be able to keep up his strength till the fever breaks, and carry him to a hospital in France. If we can’t get them for him, he will be dead within twenty-four hours. That’s the situation.”

The steward rose and turned out the drop-light on his desk. “Have you received notice that there are no more eggs and oranges on board? Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you. I did not provision this ship.”

“No. I understand that. I believe the United States Government provided the fruit and eggs and meat. And I positively know that the articles I need for my patient are not exhausted. Without going into the matter further, I warn you that I’m not going to let a United States officer die when the means of saving him are procurable. I’ll go to the skipper, I’ll call a meeting of the army officers