Ross Grant, Tenderfoot

Title: Ross Grant, Tenderfoot

Author: John Garland

Illustrator: Ralph L. Boyer

Release date: November 12, 2010 [eBook #34296]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34296

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net

SLOWLY HE WAS LET DOWN

ROSS GRANT TENDERFOOT

BY

JOHN GARLAND

AUTHOR OF "Ross Grant, Gold Hunter" "Ross Grant on the Trail"

Illustrated by R. L. Boyer

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1917

COPYRIGHT 1915 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

Ross Grant, Tenderfoot

To Mr. and Mrs. C. H. Tewksbury whose life in the Wyoming Mountains has made Ross Grant, Tenderfoot, possible, I cordially dedicate this book

Introduction

5When I went over the same route, some time before Ross Grant traveled it, from Cody eighty miles into the snow-capped Shoshones, I found how welcome a "Doc Tenderfoot" would be in the gold mining camp at the end of the route. There was, in camp, the superintendent of one of the mining companies, a man who had never had any instruction in things medical or surgical, but who, with a steady hand and a cool head, and an acquired knowledge of "first aids," was often called on in case of sickness and accident, as there was no doctor nearer than Cody. Such a state of affairs greeted Ross Grant when he arrived with his medical "emergency chest" and his real knowledge of the use to which its contents should be put.

Also, I found a certain "outfit" of men, not McKenzie in name but in nature, waiting to "jump" certain valuable "claims" provided the owners failed in any particular to measure up to the requirements of the law. Their intention was 6 to do the "jumping" legally and not through "gun play," which is becoming an obsolete custom in that great state.

Then, too, I discovered over on a real Meadow Creek Valley–exactly the same place that Ross found–a real "Dutch Weimer" afflicted with snow-blindness, imprisoned for months at a time in the little valley because of the danger from snowslides on the mountainsides.

And, by the way, if you should ever follow this same interesting trail from Cody up into the mountains, you would find "Ross Grant, Tenderfoot" an accurate guide-book until you reached the end of the stage route. There you would find that Miners’ Camp is a fictitious name applied to a real place. And if you should chance to be in camp on the Fourth of July, you would realize fully the difficulties that Ross had to contend against in the vast snowfalls. For the year I visited the mountains the glorious Fourth was celebrated by snow-shoe races down the mountainsides! There are snow-storms every month in the year there, but Miners’ Camp is comparatively free from snow during August and September.

These are the months, then, when gold hunters, "prospectors," are most numerous in the mountains. I saw them everywhere with their "pack outfits" bound on wooden saddles, seeking in the 7 rocks for indications of a fortune that is as elusive in their business as the proverbial "pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."

But, although Ross Grant did not immediately find a fortune, he found what is far more desirable, the development of muscle, quick wit and nerve in the situations which he was obliged to face and conquer in these adventure-breeding mountains.

"Ross Grant, Gold Hunter" tells of the hero’s further adventures in the mountains and of his hard won "find."

In "Ross Grant on the Trail" he meets many discouragements, but finally conquers them.

John Garland.

13CHAPTER IA BORN SURGEON

Dr. Fred Grant, recalled in haste from his daily round of professional visits by a telephone message from his nephew, leaped out of his carriage over the yet moving wheel, and, stuffing an open letter into his pocket, rushed up the walk and into his office, which occupied a wing of his commodious house.

A sight met his eyes which was not uncommon, situated as he was in the midst of the coal fields of Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania. Stretched out on the leather couch lay a man from the mines, black and grimy, his right arm crushed. Two other miners, also blackened with coal-dust, sat on the edges of their chairs, their eyes following the movements of Ross Grant, the doctor’s nephew and self-constituted assistant.

Those movements had been rapid and effective. Again and again had this seventeen-year-old boy been brought face to face with such cases as this, and he handled it promptly and wordlessly. 14 Words, indeed, would have been wasted, as none of his callers spoke English. He had quieted the sufferer with a hypodermic injection of morphine, stripped the injured arm, cleansed it, and treated it with a temporary dressing.

Then, with the bandages firmly in place, he had gone to the telephone and patiently called up house after house until he found his uncle.

When Dr. Grant entered the office, he found Ross calmly taking the temperature of the wounded man.

"He must have met with the accident at least an hour before they got him here," the boy explained, "for he was suffering awfully. I thought I ought to fix him up before trying to find you."

His uncle nodded with satisfaction, and bent over the man. "All right," he commended briefly, but his tone said more. Words were not always necessary to an understanding between uncle and nephew.

The younger man was an abridged edition of the older in form and feature. In movements the two were alike only so long as Ross was aiding the doctor on such an occasion as this. Then there were in both the same alertness and quiet intentness, the same compression of the lips and narrowing of the eyes. But when the strain of the hour was past and the miners gone, the boy’s 15 manner changed. The alert quality which characterized the uncle at all times seemed to desert the nephew, and his movements became slow. From the born surgeon in embryo he became a rather awkward, self-conscious boy.

Throwing himself into a chair behind the table, he drew toward him Gray’s "Anatomy," and began reading at a line marked by a paper-cutter, his closely cropped head grasped in both hands.

The older man moved around the room restlessly, occasionally glancing with troubled eyes at the figure behind the table. Standing finally in front of the window, he drew the letter from his pocket, smoothed it out, and read it again.

In front of him, in the valley, lay Pittston and Wilkes-Barre, with Scranton in the distance, and beyond, the sun-burned hills, almost hidden now by the smoke from a hundred coal-breakers, and by the late August haze.

"Ross," began Dr. Grant abruptly, without turning, "I’m afraid you are going to meet disappointment–to a certain extent. I have a letter from your father."

The boy raised his head with a jerk. "Do you mean that he forbids––"

"No,"–the doctor turned slowly,–"not exactly. He expects to send for you in a few days, and will tell you himself."

16Ross’s chin came up. "And I shall not be twenty-one for nearly four years yet!" he exclaimed aggressively.

His uncle looked at him with more sternness than he felt. "Remember, Ross, that he is your father and that you owe him––"

Ross interrupted hotly, looking longingly at the letter. "I don’t owe him as much as I do you and Aunt Anne."

Dr. Grant made no reply, nor did he share the letter. Putting it into an inner pocket, he left the office, and presently Ross heard the sound of wheels on the drive. Dr. Grant was starting again on his interrupted round of calls.

The boy leaned back and drew a deep breath. His father was going to send for him, and would then tell him–what? That he could not enter a medical college? That he could not become a surgeon? That he must fit himself for a business career? His chin came up again. He looked around the office lingeringly. It had been the heart of his home for seven years. It represented to him all that he wished to become. His father was almost a stranger to him; his uncle had stood in the place of a father since he, a sickly boy of ten, had been sent from the city to gain health on the hills which girdle Wyoming Valley.

He had gained health. In so far he had fulfilled 17 his father’s wishes. But, in addition, he had gained a knowledge and been settled in a desire extremely displeasing to Ross Grant, Senior, who expected to train his only son to continue his own business.

"Grant & Grant" was the father’s ambition; "Dr. Grant" the son’s.

Presently Dr. Grant’s wife appeared in the doorway of the office. She was a short, round woman, with a laughing face and a pretty, bustling air of authority. Stopping abruptly, she shook a chubby forefinger at Ross.

"All day to-day," she accused, "you have bent over that book."

Ross, his elbows planted on the table and his chin resting on his fists, shook his head. He did not look up.

"I’ve been studying Gray on Anatomy, Aunt Anne. Got to master him."

Aunt Anne bobbed energetically across the room, and slammed the volume shut. "There!" she cried triumphantly. "Get out and walk five miles, and strengthen your own anatomy!"

Under her light tones and in the affectionate touch of her hand as she ran her fingers through his hair, Ross detected an undercurrent of solicitude, which brought forth a counter-accusation. Rising hastily, he laid both hands on her 18 shoulders, and looked down from an altitude of five feet ten.

"Aunt Anne, you know what father wrote to uncle, don’t you?"

Mrs. Grant’s eyes fell. "Better take a good run over the mountain, Ross," she parried.

Ross’s hands slipped from her shoulders. "I see there’s no use asking either of you what he wrote."

Mrs. Grant flecked some dust from the table. "Sometimes, Ross," was her only reply, "disappointment is the very best and most strengthening tonic we can take."

She turned away, adding without glancing back as she left the room: "I do wish, Ross, that you’d get out and exercise more. You would conquer Gray’s ’Anatomy’–and all other difficulties–more quickly if you would."

"I guess you’re right, Aunt Anne," assented Ross.

"Yes," scolded Aunt Anne to her sister in the living-room–but the scolding rested on a very apparent foundation of love–"Ross always agrees with me about taking vigorous exercise–and then never takes it. Now watch him walk, will you?" she fretted, looking out of the window.

Her sister, busily sewing, paused with suspended needle, and glanced out. Ross was going slowly 19 down the drive, his head bent forward, his youthful shoulders carelessly sagging, his long arms aimlessly hanging, giving him a curiously helpless appearance at variance with his large frame.

"It’s Ross’s own fault," declared Aunt Anne. "He doesn’t like to exert himself physically. Not that he’s lazy," defensively, "for he isn’t. He would work all night over a patient, and never think of himself; but to get out and exercise for the sake of exercising, and straightening himself up, and holding himself, somehow–well, I’ve talked myself hoarse about it, and then found that he had been reading some medical book or other all the time I was talking!"

Here Aunt Anne laughed silently, and ran her shears through a length of gingham, adding, as if the addition were a logical sequence to her monologue:

"It’s a mystery to me how his father can feel so disappointed in him."

"Disappointed in Ross?" exclaimed the sister in a tone of wonder.

Mrs. Grant nodded. "His father sends for him once a year, sees him for a day or two when Ross is at the greatest disadvantage in unaccustomed surroundings–you know the stepmother is a woman of fashion; and the result is that he is so awkward and slow and tongue-tied that his father–well," 20 Mrs. Grant bit off her thread energetically, "of course, we feel tender on the subject because we have had Ross now for seven years, and we think a better boy never lived. But now the time has come," her voice trembled, "when we must give him up."

"Will his father forbid his going to medical college?" asked the sister.

Mrs. Grant hesitated. "No, I don’t think he will forbid it; but he will prevent it–if he is able," she added significantly.

Two days later the summons from Ross Grant, Senior, arrived in the shape of a telegram brief and to the point. "Take night-train," it read, "September first. Reach office at nine."

"Ross," worried Aunt Anne as she straightened his tie and hovered around him anxiously the afternoon of September first, "you’d better get a new hat in Scranton. This one is–well, I think you better appear before Mrs. Grant in a new one."

"All right, aunt."

Dr. Grant extended his hand, and gripped Ross’s. "Remember, my boy, that the telegram appointed nine a. m. as the time for your appearing."

Ross laughed. "Don’t you worry, uncle," he returned confidently. "I shall be at the office before father gets there."

But, despite his confidence, it was nearly ten the 21 morning following before he stepped out of the elevator of a Broadway office building and presented himself hesitatingly before the clerk in his father’s outer office.

His hesitation was due to his appearance. His hat, new the afternoon before, was soiled and pierced by the calk of a horse’s shoe. His shirtfront was also soiled and then smeared over by a wet cloth in a vain effort to remove the dirt. His right coat-sleeve was wrinkled, and bore marks of a recent wetting. About his clothes lingered a subtle "horsy" odor, which caused the clerk to sniff involuntarily as he curiously looked over the heir to the house of Grant before disappearing into the inner office.

When he returned he bore the crisp message that Ross was to wait until his father had time to see him.

Ross waited. He retreated to a window through which the sunshine streamed, and there sat, industriously drying his wet sleeve. He pulled it, and smoothed it, and stretched it, only to see it shrivel and shrink while he waited. The clerk occasionally glanced with no abating of curiosity from the boy to the clock. Two hours passed. Others waiting in that outer office grew restless. They read. They took quick turns about the room. They went out into the corridor, and 22 returned. At last, one by one, they were ushered into the inner office, while Ross still waited.

It was past twelve before his father sent for him, and the first glance the boy encountered was one of displeasure.

"Did you come in on the night-train?" was the elder Grant’s greeting.

"Yes, sir."

The father frowned, and looked up at a clock which ticked above their heads.

"I telegraphed you that I could see you at nine."

Ross sank into a great padded, leather-upholstered chair. All about him were evidences of luxury, but he was conscious only of his father’s displeasure and of his own disreputable appearance. He studied his hands awkwardly, and stumbled in his reply.

"I should have been here by nine, sir, but for an accident which occurred on the ferry––"

"Accident?" His father’s tone softened.

Ross looked at his coat-sleeve. "There was a fine horse, a big bay that stood behind a truckster’s cart. He took an apple. It lodged in his throat, and he nearly choked to death." The boy hesitated and glanced up. "I got it out," he explained simply, adding apologetically, "I got awfully mussed up doing it, though."

"You!" Grant burst out, paying no attention to 23 the apology. "You got it out!" He leaned forward, genuinely interested. "How did you do it?"

Ross warmed under the interest in the tone. "I was standing in the bow of the boat, just over the rail from the horse, and I saw what the trouble was. There was no one else who seemed to know what to do." He spoke modestly. "The horse would have died before we reached the landing; and so," simply, "I ran my arm down his throat, and got the apple."

"You did!" ejaculated Grant. He leaned further forward. "And what prevented the horse from chewing up your arm while you were after the apple?"

"A bootblack’s brush," Ross explained. "A boy was rubbing up a man’s shoes near me; and I grabbed his brushes, and got busy. One of the deck hands helped me prop the horse’s mouth open. I threw off my coat"–here Ross surveyed himself ruefully, and left the subject of the horse; "and I got pretty dirty all over. Couldn’t help it. There wasn’t any time to think of keeping clean. But after we got over on the New York side the owner of the horse took me to a stable, and helped me to clean up; but–I don’t think it’s much of a success."

Mr. Grant leaned back in his swivel chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and fitted his finger-tips 24 together. His imagination, country-trained in his youth, was supplying some of the details which his son had omitted. He nodded his iron-gray head, and narrowed his eyes, a trick common to all the Grants when intent on any subject.

"Quick work," he remarked after a pause. His eyes were taking the measure of his son. "It had to be quick work," he added as if to convince himself that Ross could act swiftly.

"Where did you get breakfast?" was his next question.

"I haven’t had any," Ross replied. "I tried to get here by nine o’clock."

A low whistle escaped the father. He arose, and reached for his hat, which lay on the top of a safe behind him. "We’ll go out to lunch now."

Ross glanced doubtfully from his father’s well-groomed person to his own dirty coat.

"Perhaps, father, you’d like me to go out alone so long as––"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Grant brusquely.

As they left the room, he took his boy’s arm. There was little resemblance between the two. Ross had his uncle’s head with its high brow and well-shaped chin, lean cheeks, and prominent ears. He was taller than his father, but wholly lacked his father’s energetic manner and erect carriage.

25"You graduated in June from Wyoming Seminary," the father stated as they entered a large Broadway restaurant and sat down near the door.

"Yes, sir."

"No honors?"

The boy’s eyes fell. "No, sir. I stood tenth in a class of thirty-four."

Evasion of the truth was not one of Ross’s strong points.

"And," stated his father, "it took you five years to do a four years’ course."

Ross looked his father squarely in the eyes, and lifted his chin a little. The father noticed for the first time that the boy’s chin could indicate aggression.

"I flunked on mathematics. But I made them up the next summer, and went on."

Again Grant looked at his son attentively, the son who retrieved his failure and "went on."

"You’re seventeen," he said abruptly. "What’s next?" The question, as both knew, was superfluous.

"Medical college," Ross answered as abruptly as the question had been put. "I am preparing for the entrance examinations in the University of Pennsylvania. I want to go down and take them in January, and at the same time pass upon a couple of subjects in the freshman year."

26There was a gleam of curiosity in Grant’s deep-set eyes as he put the next questions.

"Haven’t I told you repeatedly that I shall never advance one penny on a medical education for you?"

"Yes, sir." Ross’s eyes met his father’s steadily but respectfully. "And I shall not ask you to advance a cent."

"But haven’t I forbidden your uncle, also, to help you out?"

"Yes, sir, and Uncle Fred has no intention of helping me. He’ll keep the letter and the spirit of the law you have laid down."

"Well, then––"

Ross smiled quietly. "But you have never forbidden my getting a medical education through my own efforts; and that, father, is what I intend to do."

Ross Grant, Senior, found himself looking into eyes which he recognized as strangely like his own and shining with the same determination which in himself had established a thriving business and built up a moderate fortune. Never had he been so interested in his son. Never had he so coveted him for a business career. But, as he ate a moment in silence, young Ross’s determined voice seemed to be repeating in old Ross’s ears, "That, father, is what I intend to do."