CHAPTER XXI
DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET
It early attracted the apothecary's notice, in observing thecivilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false bottoms in itssocial errors only by incessant reiteration. As he re-entered the shop,dissatisfied with himself for accepting M. Grandissime's invitation toride, he knew by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips ofhis employee that the f.m.c. had been making one of his reconnoisances,and possibly had ventured in to inquire for his tenant.
"I t'ink, me, dat hanny w'ite man is a gen'leman; but I don't care if aman are good like a h-angel, if 'e har not pu'e w'ite '_ow can_ 'e be agen'leman?"
Raoul's words were addressed to a man who, as he rose up and handedFrowenfeld a note, ratified the Creole's sentiment by a spurt of tobaccojuice and an affirmative "Hm-m."
The note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date.
DEAR JOE: Come and see me some time this evening. I am on my back in bed. Want your help in a little matter. Yours, Keene.
I have found out who ---- ----"
Frowenfeld pondered: "I have found out who ---- ----" Ah! Doctor Keenehad found out who stabbed Agricola.
Some delays occurred in the afternoon, but toward sunset the apothecarydressed and went out. From the doctor's bedside in the rue St. Louis, ifnot delayed beyond all expectation, he would proceed to visit the ladiesat Number 19 rue Bienville. The air was growing cold and threateningbad weather.
He found the Doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross and almost too weakfor speech. He could only whisper, as his friend approached his pillow:
"These vile lungs!"
"Hemorrhage?"
The invalid held up three small, freckled fingers.
Joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed savage not toexpress some feeling, so after standing a moment he began to say:
"I am very sorry--"
"You needn't bother yourself!" whispered the doctor, who lay frowningupward. By and by he whispered again.
Frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry when well,repeated, in a savage hiss:
"Sit down!"
It was some time before he again broke the silence.
"Tell you what I want--you to do--for me."
"Well, sir--"
"Hold on!" gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes with impatience,--"tillI get through."
He lay a little while motionless, and then drew from under his pillow awallet, and from the wallet a pistol-ball.
"Took that out--a badly neglected wound--last day I saw you." Here apause, an appalling cough, and by and by a whisper: "Knew the bullet inan instant." He smiled wearily. "Peculiar size." He made a feeblemotion. Frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and handed him a pistolfrom a small table. The ball slipped softly home. "Refused two hundreddollars--those pistols"--with a sigh and closed eyes. By and byagain--"Patient had smart fever--but it will be gone--time youget--there. Want you to--take care--t' I get up."
"But, Doctor--"
The sick man turned away his face with a petulant frown; but presently,with an effort at self-control, brought it back and whispered:
"You mean you--not physician?"
"Yes."
"No. No more are half--doc's. You can do it. Simple gun-shot wound inthe shoulder." A rest. "Pretty wound; ranges"--he gave up the effort todescribe it. "You'll see it." Another rest. "You see--this matter hasbeen kept quiet so far. I don't want any one--else to know--anythingabout it." He sighed audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep,but whispered again, with his eyes closed--"'specially on culprit'sown account."
Frowenfeld was silent: but the invalid was waiting for an answer, and,not getting it, stirred peevishly.
"Do you wish me to go to-night?" asked the apothecary.
"To-morrow morning. Will you--?"
"Certainly, Doctor."
The invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking steadily at hisfriend, and finally let a faint smile play about his mouth,--a wanreminder of his habitual roguery.
"Good boy," he whispered.
Frowenfeld rose and straightened the bedclothes, took a few steps aboutthe room, and finally returned. The Doctor's restless eye had followedhim at every movement.
"You'll go?"
"Yes," replied the apothecary, hat in hand; "where is it?"
"Corner Bienville and Bourbon,--upper river corner,--yellow one-storyhouse, doorsteps on street. You know the house?"
"I think I do."
"Good-night. Here!--I wish you would send that black girl in here--asyou go out--make me better fire--Joe!" the call was a ghostly whisper.
Frowenfeld paused in the door.
"You don't mind my--bad manners, Joe?"
The apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles.
"No, Doctor."
He started toward Number 19 rue Bienville, but a light, cold sprinkleset in, and he turned back toward his shop. No sooner had the rain gothim there than it stopped, as rain sometimes will do.
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