VI
THE YOUNG DOCTOR
Barney's jaw ran along the side of his face, ending abruptly in a square-cut chin, the jaw and chin doing for his face what a ridge and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They suggested the bed rock of character, abiding, firm, indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he would arrive, there remained only to find the path and press it. He would be a doctor. The question was, how? His first step was to consult the only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour and ended by offering him money, cursing his Highland pride when the boy refused it.
“What do I want with money?” cried the doctor. He had lost his only son three years before. “There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, that's all! Had my boy lived, God knows I'd have made him a surgeon. But—” Here the doctor snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard with his nose. “Confound these foggy nights! I'll put you through.”
“I'll pay my way,” said Barney almost sullenly, “or I'll stay at home.”
“What are you doing here, then?” he roared at the boy.
“I came to find out how to start. Must a man go to college?”
“No,” shouted the doctor again; “he can be a confounded fool and work up by himself, a terrible handicap, going up for the examinations till the last year, when he must attend college.”
“I could do that,” said Barney, closing his jaws.
The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws looked more than ever like a ledge of granite and the chin like a cliff. “You can, eh? Hanged if I don't believe you! And I'll help you. I'd like to, if you would let me.” The voice ended in a wistful tone. The boy was touched.