No, you wouldn't think the Doctor's
office a grewsome place, and you certainly wouldn't think the Doctor was
a grewsome person--not when you come to know him.
If you met him out on Sunday afternoon in his black clothes, white
neck-cloth, and well-brushed hat, his gray hair straggling over his
coat-collar, pounding his cane on the pavement as he walked, you would
say he had a Sunday-school class somewhere. If you should come upon him
suddenly, seated before his fire, his gold spectacles clinging to his
finely chiselled nose, his thoughtful face bending over his book, you
would conclude that you had interrupted some savant, and bow
yourself out.
But you must ring his bell at night--say two o'clock A.M.; catch his
cheery voice calling through the tube from his bedroom in the
rear--"Yes; coming right away--be there soon as I get my clothes
on"--feel the strength and sympathy and readiness to help in the man,
and try to keep step with him as he hurries on, and then watch him when
he enters the sick-room, diffusing hope and cheer and confidence, and
listen to the soft, soothing tones of his voice, before you really get
at the inside lining of "Doc" Shipman.
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