Not to the bedside of some dangerously sick person was Dr. Camperdown hastening, but to have a tedious conversation on imaginary ailments with a rich and fanciful patient.
“She’s a nuisance, that old Mrs. Prodgers,” he soliloquized as he turned Polypharmacy’s head toward the south. “Sent me word yesterday she was dying. That means she has a headache today. Hallo, there’s Stargarde,” as a woman’s figure passed before his horse’s head and hurried down the snowy road forming the southern boundary of Pinewood. The grove of pines pressed up close to the wall at this side of the house, and lower down, nearer the Arm, was a small gate often used by Colonel Armour’s friends who approached his place of residence from the south and wished to save themselves a longer walk around by the avenue.
“She must be going down to the cottage,” pursued Dr. Camperdown. “She’s crazy to come out in this deep snow. She’ll wet her feet, and wet feet and cold feet are the cause of a third of the miseries the feminine part of this town is subject to, if they only knew it. Stargarde, Stargarde!” and he lifted up his voice; “shall I wait and drive you home?”
The woman quickened her pace to a run, and plunging through the snow, was quickly at the gate in the wall which she hastily opened and passed through.
“Doesn’t want to see me,” he muttered. “Very good. I can wait,” and he resignedly drove on.
About five o’clock the patient Polypharmacy, at his master’s command, drew up in front of the Pavilion. “I won’t throw the rug over you, Polypharmacy,” said Dr. Camperdown, “for I’m not going to stay. Stargarde isn’t home. Will leave this tonic for Zeb, and return in a jiffy. Hallo, what’s this?”
By this time the snow had ceased falling. A brilliantly cold and beautiful winter sunset adorned the western sky. Straggling lines of men with shovels invaded the houses of the city, begging for the privilege of clearing the snow from the sidewalks, and various citizens who had been kept indoors all day by the severity of the storm now ventured forth for a stroll before darkness settled upon the town.
Camperdown’s exclamation was caused by a small procession coming down the street. Six old men and three old women were creeping, halting, and limping along in single file through the snow, and turned in at the entrance to the Pavilion as if to go to Stargarde’s rooms.
“Who are these and whence do they come?” he asked a small boy in red mittens who was alternately watching him and trying to make snowballs out of the dry and powdery snow which refused to stick together.
“I guess Miss Turner’s having a cripple tea,” said the boy. “She often does. The cripples likes to come together, ’cause they can talk about their arms and legs.”