Chapter 15

Gerald Brower, who was a baby when I came to live at Faraway,
and was now eleven, had caught a cold in seed time, and he had
never quite recovered. His coughing had begun to keep him awake,
and one night it brought alarm to the whole household. Elizabeth
Brower was up early in the morning and called Uncle Eb, who
went away for the doctor as soon as light came. We ate our
breakfast in silence. Father and mother and Grandma Bisnette
spoke only in low tones and somehow the anxiety in their faces
went to my heart. Uncle Eb returned about eight o'clock and said
the doctor was coming. Old Doctor Bigsby was a very great man in
that country. Other physicians called him far and wide for
consultation. I had always regarded him with a kind of awe
intensified by the aroma of his drugs and the gleam of his lancet.
Once I had been his patient and then I had trembled at his
approach. When he took my little wrist in his big hand, I remember
with what reluctance I stuck out my quivering tongue, black, as I
feared with evidences of prevarication.

He was a picture for a painter man as he came that morning erect
in his gig. Who could forget the hoary majesty of his head - his
'stovepipe' tilted back, his white locks flying about his ears? He
had a long nose, a smooth-shaven face and a left eye that was a
trifle turned. His thoughts were generally one day behind the
calendar. Today he seemed to be digesting the affairs of yesterday.
He was, therefore, absentminded, to a degree that made no end of
gossip. If he came out one day with shoe-strings flying, in his
remorse the next he would forget his collar; if one told him a good
joke today, he might not seem to hear it, but tomorrow he would
take it up in its turn and shake with laughter.

I remember how, that morning after noting the symptoms of his
patient, he sat a little in silent reflection. He knew that colour in
the cheek, that look in the eye - he had seen so much of it. His legs
were crossed and one elbow thrown carelessly over the back of his
chair. We all sat looking at him anxiously. In a moment he began
chewing hard on his quid of tobacco. Uncle Eb pushed the
cuspidor a bit nearer. The doctor expectorated freely and resumed
his attitude of reflection. The clock ticked loudly, the patient
sighed, our anxiety increased. Uncle Eb spoke to father, in a low
tone, whereupon the doctor turned suddenly, with a little grunt of
enquiry, and seeing he was not addressed, sank again into
thoughtful repose. I had begun to fear the worst when suddenly the
hand of the doctor swept the bald peak of benevolence at the top of
his head. Then a smile began to spread over his face. It was as if
some feather of thought had begun to tickle him. In a moment his
head