The evening train from Boston pulled out as he passed through the waiting room. One or two passengers were standing on the platform. One of these was a short, square-shouldered man with gray side whiskers and eyeglasses. The initials on his suit case were J. S. M., Boston, and they stood for John Spencer Morgan. If the bearer of the suit case had followed the fashion of the native princes of India and had emblazoned his titles upon his baggage, the commonplace name just quoted might have been followed by “M.D., LL.D., at Harvard and Oxford; vice president American Medical Society; corresponding secretary Associated Society of Surgeons; lecturer at Harvard Medical College; author of 'Diseases of the Throat and Lungs,' etc., etc.” But Dr. Morgan was not given to advertising either his titles or himself, and he was hurrying across the platform to Redny Blount's depot wagon when Captain Hiram touched him on the arm. “Why, hello, Captain Baker,” exclaimed the Doctor, “how do you do?” “Dr. Morgan,” said the Captain, “I--I hope you'll excuse my presumin' on you this way, but I want to ask a favor of you, a great favor. I want to ask if you'll come down to the house and see the boy; he's on the sick list.” “What, Dusenberry?” “Yes, sir. He's pretty bad, I'm 'fraid, and the old lady's considerable upsot about him. If you just come down and kind of take an observation, so's we could sort of get our bearin's, as you might say, 'twould be a mighty help to all hands.” “But where's your town physician? Hasn't he been called?” The Captain explained. He had inquired, and he had telegraphed, but could get no word of Dr. Parker's whereabouts. The great Boston specialist listened to Captain Hiram's story in an absent-minded way. Holidays were few and far between with him, and when he accepted the long-standing invitation of Mr. Ogden Williams to run down for the week end he determined to forget the science of medicine and all that pertained to it for the four days of his outing. But an exacting patient had detained him long enough to prevent his taking the train that morning, and now, on the moment of his belated arrival, he was asked to pay a professional call. He liked the Captain, who had taken him out fishing several times on his previous excursions to East Harniss, and he remembered Dusenberry as a happy little sea urchin, but he simply couldn't interrupt his pleasure trip to visit a sick baby. Besides, the child was Dr. Parker's patient, and professional ethics forbade interference. “Captain Hiram,” he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but it will be impossible for me to do what you ask. Mr. Williams expected me this morning, and I am late already. Dr. Parker will, no doubt, return soon. The baby cannot be dangerously ill or he would not have left him.” The Captain slowly turned away. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said huskily. “I knew I hadn't no right to ask.”