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THE SONG OF THE LARK
PART I
FRIENDS OF CHILDHOOD
I
Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a
game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two travel-
ing men who happened to be staying overnight in Moon-
stone. His offices were in the Duke Block, over the drug
store. Larry, the doctor's man, had lit the overhead light
in the waiting-room and the double student's lamp on the
desk in the study. The isinglass sides of the hard-coal
burner were aglow, and the air in the study was so hot that
as he came in the doctor opened the door into his little
operating-room, where there was no stove. The waiting-
room was carpeted and stiffly furnished, something like a
country parlor. The study had worn, unpainted floors, but
there was a look of winter comfort about it. The doctor's
flat-top desk was large and well made; the papers were in
orderly piles, under glass weights. Behind the stove a wide
bookcase, with double glass doors, reached from the floor
to the ceiling. It was filled with medical books of every
thickness and color. On the top shelf stood a long row of
thirty or forty volumes, bound all alike in dark mottled
board covers, with imitation leather backs.
As the doctor in New England villages is proverbially
old, so the doctor in small Colorado towns twenty-five
years ago was generally young. Dr. Archie was barely
thirty. He was tall, with massive shoulders which he held
stiffly, and a large, well-shaped head. He was a distin-
guished-looking man, for that part of the world, at least.
There was something individual in the way in which his
reddish-brown hair, parted cleanly at the side, bushed over
his high forehead. His nose was straight and thick, and his
eyes were intelligent. He wore a curly, reddish mustache
and an imperial, cut trimly, which made him look a little
like the pictures of Napoleon III. His hands were large and
well kept, but ruggedly formed, and the backs were shaded
with crinkly reddish hair. He wore a blue suit of woolly,
wide-waled serge; the traveling men had known at a glance
that it was made by a Denver tailor. The doctor was al-
ways well dressed.
Dr. Archie turned up the student's lamp and sat down in
the swivel chair before his desk. He sat uneasily, beating
a tattoo on his knees with his fingers, and looked about him
as if he were bored. He glanced at his watch, then absently
took from his pocket a bunch of small keys, selected one
and looked at it. A contemptuous smile, barely percepti-
ble, played on his lips, but his eyes remained meditative.
Behind the door that led into the hall, under his buffalo-
skin driving-coat, was a locked cupboard. This the doctor
opened mechanically, kicking aside a pile of muddy over-
shoes. Inside, on the shelves, were whiskey glasses and
decanters, lemons, sugar, and bitters. Hearing a step in
the empty, echoing hall without, the doctor closed the cup-
board again, snapping the Yale lock. The door of the
waiting-room opened, a man entered and came on into
the consulting-room.
"Good-evening, Mr. Kronborg," said the doctor care-
lessly. "Sit down."
His visitor was a tall, loosely built man, with a thin
brown beard, streaked with gray. He wore a frock coat, a
broad-brimmed black hat, a white lawn necktie, and steel-
rimmed spectacles. Altogether there was a pretentious and
important air about him, as he lifted the skirts of his coat
and sat down.
"Good-evening, doctor. Can you step around to the
house with me? I think Mrs. Kronborg will need you this
evening." This was said with profound gravity and, curi-
ously enough, with a slight embarrassment.
"Any hurry?" the doctor asked over his shoulder as he
went into his operating-room.
Mr. Kronborg coughed behind his hand, and contracted
his brows. His face threatened at every moment to break
into a smile of foolish excitement. He controlled it only by
calling upon his habitual pulpit manner. "Well, I think it
would be as well to go immediately. Mrs. Kronborg will be
more comfortable if you are there. She has been suffering
for some time."
The doctor came back and threw a black bag upon his
desk. He wrote some instructions for his man on a pre-
scription pad and then drew on his overcoat. "All ready,"
he announced, putting out his lamp. Mr. Kronborg rose
and they tramped through the empty hall and down the
stairway to the street. The drug store below was dark, and
the saloon next door was just closing. Every other light on
Main Street was out.
On either side of the road and at the outer edge of the
board sidewalk, the snow had been shoveled into breast-
works. The town looked small and black, flattened down
in the snow, muffled and all but extinguished. Overhead
the stars shone gloriously. It was impossible not to notice
them. The air was so clear that the white sand hills to the
east of Moonstone gleamed softly. Following the Reverend
Mr. Kronborg along the narrow walk, past the little dark,
sleeping houses, the doctor looked up at the flashing night
and whistled softly. It did seem that people were stupider
than they need be; as if on a night like this there ought to
be something better to do than to sleep nine hours, or to
assist Mrs. Kronborg in functions which she could have
performed so admirably unaided. He wished he had gone
down to Denver to hear Fay Templeton sing "See-Saw."
Then he remembered that he had a personal interest in this
family, after all. They turned into another street and saw
before them lighted windows; a low story-and-a-half house,
with a wing built on at the right and a kitchen addition at
the back, everything a little on the slant--roofs, windows,
and doors. As they approached the gate, Peter Kron-
borg's pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough
annoyed the doctor. "Exactly as if he were going to give
out a text," he thought. He drew off his glove and felt
in his vest pocket. "Have a troche, Kronborg," he said,
producing some. "Sent me for samples. Very good for a
rough throat."
"Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a
hurry. I neglected to put on my overshoes. Here we are,
doctor." Kronborg opened his front door--seemed de-
lighted to be at home again.
The front hall was dark and cold; the hatrack was hung
with an astonishing number of children's hats and caps and
cloaks. They were even piled on the table beneath the
hatrack. Under the table was a heap of rubbers and over-
shoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat, Peter
Kronborg opened the door into the living-room. A glare of
light greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale air, smelling of
warming flannels.
At three o'clock in the morning Dr. Archie was in the
parlor putting on his cuffs and coat--there was no spare
bedroom in that house. Peter Kronborg's seventh child,
a boy, was being soothed and cosseted by his aunt, Mrs.
Kronborg was asleep, and the doctor was going home. But
he wanted first to speak to Kronborg, who, coatless and
fluttery, was pouring coal into the kitchen stove. As the
doctor crossed the dining-room he paused and listened.
From one of the wing rooms, off to the left, he heard rapid,
distressed breathing. He went to the kitchen door.
"One of the children sick in there?" he asked, nodding
toward the partition.
Kronborg hung up the stove-lifter and dusted his fingers.
"It must be Thea. I meant to ask you to look at her. She
has a croupy cold. But in my excitement--Mrs. Kronborg
is doing finely, eh, doctor? Not many of your patients with
such a constitution, I expect."
"Oh, yes. She's a fine mother." The doctor took up the
lamp from the kitchen table and unceremoniously went
into the wing room. Two chubby little boys were asleep
in a double bed, with the coverlids over their noses and
their feet drawn up. In a single bed, next to theirs, lay a
little girl of eleven, wide awake, two yellow braids sticking
up on the pillow behind her. Her face was scarlet and her
eyes were blazing.
The doctor shut the door behind him. "Feel pretty sick,
Thea?" he asked as he took out his thermometer. "Why
didn't you call somebody?"
She looked at him with greedy affection. "I thought you
were here," she spoke between quick breaths. "There is a
new baby, isn't there? Which?"
"Which?" repeated the doctor.
"Brother or sister?"
He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Bro-
ther," he said, taking her hand. "Open."
"Good. Brothers are better," she murmured as he put
the glass tube under her tongue.
"Now, be still, I want to count." Dr. Archie reached
for her hand and took out his watch. When he put her
hand back under the quilt he went over to one of the win-
dows--they were both tight shut--and lifted it a little
way. He reached up and ran his hand along the cold, un-
papered wall. "Keep under the covers; I'll come back to
you in a moment," he said, bending over the glass lamp
with his thermometer. He winked at her from the door
before he shut it.
Peter Kronborg was sitting in his wife's room, holding
the bundle which contained his son. His air of cheerful
importance, his beard and glasses, even his shirt-sleeves,
annoyed the doctor. He beckoned Kronborg into the liv-
ing-room and said sternly:--
"You've got a very sick child in there. Why didn't you
call me before? It's pneumonia, and she must have been
sick for several days. Put the baby down somewhere,
please, and help me make up the bed-lounge here in the
parlor. She's got to be in a warm room, and she's got to
be quiet. You must keep the other children out. Here, this
thing opens up, I see," swinging back the top of the car-
pet lounge. "We can lift her mattress and carry her in
just as she is. I don't want to disturb her more than is
necessary."
Kronborg was all concern immediately. The two men
took up the mattress and carried the sick child into the parlor.
"I'll have to go down to my office to get some medicine,
Kronborg. The drug store won't be open. Keep the covers
on her. I won't be gone long. Shake down the stove and
put on a little coal, but not too much; so it'll catch quickly,
I mean. Find an old sheet for me, and put it there to warm."
The doctor caught his coat and hurried out into the dark
street. Nobody was stirring yet, and the cold was bitter.
He was tired and hungry and in no mild humor. "The
idea!" he muttered; "to be such an ass at his age, about the
seventh! And to feel no responsibility about the little girl.
Silly old goat! The baby would have got into the world
somehow; they always do. But a nice little girl like that
--she's worth the whole litter. Where she ever got it
from--" He turned into the Duke Block and ran up the
stairs to his office.
Thea Kronborg, meanwhile, was wondering why she
happened to be in the parlor, where nobody but company
--usually visiting preachers--ever slept. She had mo-
ments of stupor when she did not see anything, and mo-
ments of excitement when she felt that something unusual
and pleasant was about to happen, when she saw every-
thing clearly in the red light from the isingla...
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