The Man from Jericho

by Edwin Carlile Litsey

"John Glenning, Esq.,

"Jericho, Ky.

"Dear Sir—The death of our client, and your uncle, John Glenning, on the 14th inst., reveals the fact that one of his life insurance polices was executed with you as beneficiary. Proofs of his death having been properly forwarded to the company by us, we are this day in receipt of a draft for $2000, payable to your order. Find said draft enclosed. Please acknowledge receipt.

"Yours truly,

"Benner & Locke, Attorneys."

This letter, with the draft beside it, lay upon his table in the light of a lamp none too clean. Letter and draft had been lying there for about an hour and a half, and a coatless, tumbled-haired, hunted-eyed man had been sitting in front of them for the same length of time, alternately fingering the thin piece of paper which represented two thousand dollars, and staring at the larger sheet, with its short, business-like message. Many men would have rejoiced wildly at this piece of good luck, and it may be told in a whisper here that few could have needed it worse than the one to whom it had come. But it had a quieting and peculiar effect upon the new doctor. Parents he had none. An older married sister lived in Missouri. He had fought pretty hard since he was sixteen, hugging honour and truth to his heart as priceless possessions in the great struggle before him. He did not come of wealthy folks, nor even well-to-do. They were poor, but were people of quality. Misfortune came, such as may come to the best, and so the death of each parent was hastened. Yes, he had an uncle John. He was named for this relative. He had seen him only once or twice in his life. He had heard his father speak of him as a crotchety, peculiar person, who all his life long did the most unexpected things. He lived in New York, but had never married, and never amassed money. This freak he exhibited in privately taking out life insurance in favour of his namesake was characteristic. Possibly that accounted for it—the name. John didn't know. He had never seen this uncle since he had been grown. Once he was tempted to write to him and ask him to give help in getting him (John) through college, but he had refrained from writing this letter. He had, instead, written one telling of his struggles, and how he knew he would get through. To this he received no reply of any kind. So John had put this strange relative out of his mind, and had scarcely given him a thought in years. And now, behold how he had misjudged him! The proof of his love for his brother's child was here, silent, but convincing.

How good it was to take this first upward step towards independence! With a balance like this in the Macon National Bank the people would have greater respect for him; practice would come if he was diligent and attentive, and—Suddenly his eyes set, and an undefinable look settled upon his face. At first it seemed dismay, unbelief, then through varying gradations of emotion the changing features passed until firm resolve was fixed upon them, mingled with an expression of acute happiness which was almost painful. Then he got up, the first time in two hours, slipped the edge of a book over the precious draft as a weight, and crossing his arms on his chest fell to walking up and down. A smile had crept to his sensitive lips, and a musing, tender gleam to his eyes. It was plain his thoughts sat well with him. Up and down, with measured tread he walked, minute after minute. He was laying a plan, and if it involved deception it evidently did not disturb his conscience. When he at length resumed his chair, put his elbows on the table edge, and ran the long fingers of each hand through the hair above his ears, he appeared nearer absolute content than at any time since he had come to Macon.

The night was hot, the lamp almost touching him was hotter, but he did not know it. He did not know that perspiration was streaming from his forehead, and that the backs of his hands were beaded with moisture. It was no time for such small physical concerns. He was lifted up. He was above such trivial things as heat and cold, hunger and thirst. He had known in that hour the first sweet joy-pangs of sacrifice! The way was not all clear; only the beginning was plain. But he would light the entire road by the might of his will, if it took till morning. He had accomplished tasks of lesser import by setting his head to them; this paramount problem he would make his own. He did not hear the passing on the street, though both his windows were up as high as they could go. But when a tolerably heavy step began to ascend the stair he looked up almost with a scowl. He didn't want any callers that night. It was one night in his life when he wanted to be let alone. If some one was sick—there were other doctors! At any other time he would have welcomed the approach of a possible patient, but now his whole being rebelled against the leisurely oncomer. Would he never get up the steps! Another moment young Dillard came dragging into the room with his hands in his pockets, glanced about for a chair, and finding none, perched his bulk upon the end of the table, and sighed. John rose and shoved the chair towards him viciously.

"Sit down!" he growled.

"Damn if somethin' ain't got to be done!" was the rather peculiar response, and Dillard looked almost scared when he said it, for it is doubtful if he ever swore before in his life.

"What's the matter?" queried John, quelling his choler as he suddenly realized that his visitor was the only person in town who might be able to assist him in the work he had mapped out for that night.

"Matter! Don't you know that both Major and Miss Julia'll be dead in four weeks unless we can put our heads together to some purpose? I was out there today, between twelve and one, and I found her sittin' on the front steps huddled over that Herald like a bird with a broken wing. She'd just read what that—that devil had done, and she was crushed, man, literally crushed!"

Dillard's voice rose with his anger, and he slid to his feet, his blue eyes blinking and blazing, and his round fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Glenning, in striking contrast, stood disheveled by the lamp, the angles of his face strongly outlined and his hair falling over his forehead. One hand rested on the table, the other lightly on his hip.

"It was a terrible sight, doctor—a terrible sight! I shan't forget it if I live to be a thousand. There she was, a girl, alone, for she told me the Major was sick and she couldn't tell him. Alone, I say, to bear unaided this villain's hellish blow. Innocent, mistreated, helpless, but brave! We've got to do it, doctor, you and I; we've got to find a way—do you hear?"