Evening Star Newspaper, March 6, 1932, Page 80

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, W hen It Comes to Choosing Between an Old Doctor and a Young One, Well —This Story 1akes Up the Subject in an Interesting Manner. LD DOC CARSTON was awake when the telephone rang. He rolled over quickly, for an instant forgetting his years; remembering them sharply when his feet touches the cold floor. But he crossed resolutely to the long, black, coffin-like instrument on the wall. Wind, screaming in from the ice-locked wastes of Lake Michigan, pummeled the house with cold, bare knuckles. Half the night Doc Carston had been listening to its imperious voice. Twenty years ago he would have dread- ed a call on such a night. Now he was glad to get any kind of a call now! He couldn't afford to be particular. There seldom was a night call, or a day call, either. The storm charged boisterously around the small, lonely house. The telephone buzzed like a hive of angry bees. “Hello,” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Hello, who is it?” “Stella . the operator,” a voice replied faintly. “They want you on the island, Doc. Yes . . . the island.” For a moment the buzz of the bees claimed the line. Then, still more faintly, the opera- tor's voice reported: “Just called on subma- rine phone cable. It's at the logging camp. Five of the lumberjacks. All broke out chests and necks and faces, all crazy with - fever.” “Five of 'em?” Carston repeated. “They think one's dying,” the operator said. “They called for Taussig first, but he’s in De- troit at the clinic, his wife says.” AUSSIG! Of course, they'd call Taussig first! He'd moved into the country three years ago . in three years grabbed off the cream! Cream, milk, everything! “Team can't make it,” the operator warned. «Jim Bassens tried today. Too many pressure ridges.” “I'll walk,” Doc Carston decided. He opened the drafts in the stove and stuffed in wood, good body birch and maple, green- split and Winter-dried. The fire roared. The old man turned up the lamp and rummaged in an untidy closet. He pulled on a second pair of wool under- drawers and two pairs of wool stockings with crimson tops. His back pained when he bent to smooth out the heels. So they'd call Taus- sig first! And the upstart was off at Detroit! At a clinic! Studying to be a doctor! He knew he needed to study, did he? Well, Doc Carston knew it, too. But the people believed in him. Called him first. Nearly always. Because he was young. And good-looking. And had a nice bedside manner. That's what counted these days. Manner! You didn't need to know nux vomica from arsenic any more. You just had to know how to look :ympathetic and wear a white jacket and rubber gloves and talk sympathetic. And scare folks! Carston packed himself in his second sweater. Then he shut the drafts in the stove and crossed to his small untidy office. On an open shelf behind the desk, bottles and jars stood in disordered regiments. Hanging on a hook beside them, his first aid pack gaped empty. Five sick. Breaking out. Fever. Well, you couldn't make lumberjacks be vaccinated. And they wouldn't do it of their own accord. So when smallpox came, the doctor had his hands full. He chose carefully among the bottles and boxes and jars. It wouldn't do to load himself down too much. Fourteen miles of ice, of pressure ridges, of long, perilous detours around open leads where death lurked in the cold black water, 14 miles of insufferable winds, of snow that burned like sparks as it struck the skin, 14 miles between mainland and the island. That's what counts these days. OC CARSTON closed his bag, took his hand compass in one dog-skin mitten, his spiked staff in the other. Before he turned down the lamp he opened a cupboard, hopefully lifted a squat flask, and held it to the light. It was empty. He shrugged heavily and tramped down the hall to the door. Stars looked down upon him and he was sur- prised to find the night so clear; when he went to bed three hours ago snow still was falling. But the wind, thrashing out of the northwest, roared vehemently. It caught his bundled body, sought to trip his old legs, tired already, before his start. In the street, two men, bundled like himself, greeted him with shouts. The light was on in the telephone office, so they halted there. Car- ston recognized these other two, Jim Bassens, the island mail carrier, and Will Garrett, dep- uty sheriff. “You can't make it, Doc,” Garrett warmed. Carston chuckled. “My name ain’t Taussig,” he told them. “I've made it before, haven't I?” “Yes . . . but, Doc . . .” Bassens hesitated. “I'm too old? Wore out?” Carston demanded. “Well, I'm going. Of course Taussig couldn’t do it. You know that. I know it. I wish he was there, though . . God, I'd like to show him up!” “But with this wind, Doc.” “I'm going,” Carston replied. “We’ll go with you, then,” Bassens said. “One man, out there alone . . .” “I've done it before, Jim,” Carston reminded him. “When the lightkeeper's wife had twins. When that lumberjack broke his legs. When the diphtheria went across the island like a herd of wild hogs . . I made it, didn’t I?” “Yes, you made it, Doc.” “And you've never heard me say the weather was too bad, day or night, did you? I can get across. I'd better be able to! It's my last chance. I'll never get another call.” “Oh, yes, you will, Doc.” “No, Taussig will get ’em.” He chuckled MARCH 6, 1932 By KARL W. DETZER lllustrated By JOE KING once more, humorlessly. ‘“Taussig and his nice bedside manner! What does that upstart know about doctoring? But everybody calls him first!” Carston was adjusting the ice creepers over his pack boots and he looked up now, his red old face sharp with bitterness. “It’s his new ideas,” Bassens said. “The women likes them.” “New ideas, hell! I know why they like him. He's got a way of coming into a sick room. Like a blasted millinery salesman. A way of feeling very sorry for a patient instead of getting down to brass tacks. It's his bed- side manner, the young squirt!” He gave the creepers a final tug, and tried them cautiously against the wooden floor. Then wrapping his muffler about his chin he stood up. “Ready?” The two men followed him. The clock in the bank window pointed to 3 as they plunged into the roaring night. Dawn would be late this morning, 8 a'clock, perhaps. Five hours. Four- teen miles against a headwind . . he’d still be miles from the island at daybreak. ARSTON led the way to the beach. Ice piled in ridges along the wash, and Lake Michigan, struck mute by Winter, crouched be- neath the buffetings of the storm. Far to the southwest the Winter lamp in the south island lighthouse glowed wanly. Twice Carston looked back and saw the younger men following him. He crawled up the first tall pressure ridge. slid down the opposite side, and still chuckling humorlessly, faced the relentless gusto of Lake Michigan. There would be many such ridges to cross, he’'d best take the first ones easy. The men had been afoot an hour, three in- significant black spots on the frozen white face of the lake, when clouds scurried out of the northwest, and the wind, which had been pouring at them from the west, became even more vehement and shifted several points northward. You just have to know how to wear a white jacket and talk sympathetic—Bedside manner. It was Bassens who tugged at old Doc Cars- ton's sleeve. Carston had fallen twice, twice had staggered quickly to his feet, shame heat- ing his thin body which wool and leather did not protect from cold. “Better turn back,” Bassens yelled. just a mile off shore. This rate . hourg . . .” Carston’s voice congealed in his throat. He couldn’'t answer. But he shook his head vig- orously and kept on. Turn back? When he had a chance? He thought again of Taussig, sleeping in a warm room in Detroit, attending a clinic. Learning more fol-dc-rol to practice on a lot of poor people. He chuckled. But the young fellow'd hear something when he got back. He’'d be thankful he’d been in Detroit; he'd worry for fear he wouldn’t be away the next time a doctor need- ed to cross the ice. The clouds were overhead now. Snow pedded out of them. Carston peered backward thiough it at the lights of the town. Two miles, three at most, lay between him and shore, But no man, even a young man, could have made better time. The other two men caught up with him, There was a moment of argument. “Better turn back . . .” it was Bassens, the mail carrier. ; “No!” “Be death for all of us” “We’ll never find the island!” “And Taussig will be back tomorrow,” Bas- sens said. “We'll go by daylight.” Old Doc Carston straightened his bent back They were scared, were they? And Tlu.ssl‘ would be back. He looked closely at them. Snow rimmed his small eyes. “All rightt," he said. “All right.” Bassens turned quickly and Wil followed. Hesitantly CaZston fell iln %e‘:m “We're . take 14 Garrett cried. Continued on Seventeenth Page