The boys looked at one another, then at me; finally Lester replied, almost with a sob, “Brush is awful sick; he’s been raising blood; they sent for the Doctor.”
“Where is he? I must go see him,” I said, springing over the fence, and starting toward the house.
“He’s in that little room next the girls’ playroom; but they won’t let anybody see him,” said Warren.
I went to the room in which Brush lay, and knocked very gently on the door. There was a rustling movement inside, then the door slowly opened and one of the lady teachers stood before me.
“What is it, Frank?” she asked in a low tone.
I tried to look over her shoulder to see the bed, but she was too tall. “I want to see Brush; can’t I see him? They say he is sick. I want to see him a moment,” I pleaded. “I’m just come back from the village, and brought some buffalo meat I promised him.”
“No, Frank, you cannot see him,” was the reply. “He is very sick. The superintendent is with him trying to relieve his suffering. Run away now,” said the lady, stroking my bare head with her small hand. “Don’t make any noise, and tell the rest of the boys to be very quiet.”
I went away reproaching myself for not coming back from the village soon, as I told Brush I would. When I rejoined the boys, they looked anxiously into my face, and Edwin asked, “Did you see him?”
“No, they would not let me.” After a pause, I asked, “When did he get sick; who was with him?”
“It was under the walnut-tree,” said Lester; “he was reading to us about Joseph, out of his little black Bible he always carries. He began to cough hard and choke; he dropped the book all covered with blood, and took hold of my brother’s arm. I ran to tell the superintendent. Just as they carried Brush into the house, Edwin came back and we told him about it.”
In the evening, after the small boys had gone to bed, the doctor came, a tall gray-haired man. At the gate he was met by the superintendent, and the two walked slowly up the steps, talking earnestly. We four had been watching for the doctor on the porch; as he came along we caught now and then a word, but we did not understand its meaning. We judged by the shaking of the doctor’s head that he thought Brush’s case was serious.
Days passed; the doctor came and went; yet Brush’s door was closed to us, nor had we any hopeful news of him. We missed him sadly; we missed his whittling, his harmless scolding; and our play was only halfhearted.
Indians who came to the school on business missed his ready offer of help. There was no one to take his place; no one who could interpret for them as well as he. Each one, as he went away, left a word of cheer for the lad, with expressions of hope for his recovery.
As school was dismissed one afternoon, the teacher gave special injunctions to the scholars not to make any noise as they passed out, or while moving about the house, so as not to disturb the sick boy. We four strolled toward the spring. Frost had come, and the leaves were beginning to turn red and yellow. Wild geese flew noisily overhead, fleeing from the coming winter to sunnier climes. While we were counting, as we often did, the gray birds, floating through the air like a great V, Warren suddenly exclaimed, “Say, boys, plums!”
We looked at him inquiringly. “Let’s go get plums for Brush!” he continued excitedly. Then we remembered that we had preempted a small grove of choice plum bushes at the head of the ravine, as against all the boys of the school, and acquired a right in it which even the Big Seven respected.
Edwin ran to the kitchen and borrowed from one of the cooks a small tin pail. We hurried to our orchard, where we saw no signs of trespass; the bushes were laden with beautiful ripe fruit. We filled the little pail with the choicest, then each one picked for himself. It was nearly suppertime when we appeared at Brush’s door. The three boys looked at me; so I tapped very gently, and the teacher who was nursing the sick boy opened the door.
“We’ve brought some plums for Brush,” I said, offering the tin pail.
“That’s very nice,” said the lady, softly; “I will give them to him.” She was about to close the door, when I whispered, “Can we take just a little look at him?”
“Yes,” she answered, throwing the door open.
We four leaned forward and looked in. A smile lit up Brush’s face as he saw us. “How are you now?” I asked, in a loud whisper.
“I’m all right,” he whispered back, although his hollow eyes and cheeks told a tale that stole away all our hopes. We withdrew, and the door was slowly closed.
Next morning as I was coming down from the dormitory I paused at Brush’s door to listen. I heard footsteps moving about softly, then the door opened and one of the big girls came out with a white pitcher in her hand. I started to go on downstairs, when she called to me in a whisper, “Frank, go down to the spring and get some fresh water for Brush, will you, that’s a good boy?”
I took the pitcher and went quietly downstairs. As soon as I was outside the yard, I ran as hard as I could to the spring, glad at the prospect of a chance to see my friend again. Warren and Lester met me as I was coming up the hill.
“Did you see him?” one of them asked.
“No, but I’m going to,” I answered.
“Ask him if we can do anything for him?” said Lester.
Just as I reached the head of the
