He did not tell his wife of the occurrence.  Nor did he put the money in the black bag, where their money was always kept in the bureau drawer, safe under lock and key.  He could not do that without telling his wife where it came from.  So he shoved it carelessly into the pocket of the light overcoat that he was wearing.  Sam Motherwell was not a careless man about money, but the possession of this particular twenty-five dollars gave him no pleasure.

CHAPTER VIII THE OTHER DOCTOR

The young minister went down the street with a thoughtful face.

“I wonder if I did right,” he was thinking.  “It is a hard thing to talk that way to a human being, and yet it seems to be the only thing to do.  Oh, what it would mean for God’s work if all these rich farmers were saved from their insatiable greed.”

He turned into Dr. Clay’s office.

“Oh, Clay!” he burst out when he had answered the young man’s friendly greeting, “it is an awful thing to lay open a mean man’s meanness, and tell him the plain truth about himself.”

“It is, indeed,” the young doctor answered, “but perhaps it is heroic treatment your man needed, for I would infer that you have been reading the law to someone.  Who was it?”

“Sam Motherwell,” the minister answered.

“Well, you had a good subject,” the doctor said gravely.  “For aggravated greed, and fatty degeneration of the conscience, Mr. Motherwell is certainly a wonder.  When that poor English girl took the fever out here, it was hard to convince Sam that she was really sick.  ’Look at them red cheeks of hers,’ he said to me, ’and her ears ain’t cold, and her eyes is bright as ever.  She’s just lookin’ for a rest, I think, if you wuz to ask me.’”

“How did you convince him?”

“I told him the girl would have to have a trained nurse, and would be sick probably six weeks, and then they couldn’t get the poor girl off their hands quick enough.  ‘I don’t want that girl dyin’ round here,’ Sam said.”

“Is Mrs. Motherwell as close as he is?” the minister asked after a pause.

“Some say worse,” the doctor replied, “but I don’t believe it.  She can’t be.”

The minister’s face was troubled.  “I wish I knew what to do for them,” he said sadly.

“I’ll tell you something you can do for me,” the doctor said sitting up straight, “or at least something you may try to do.”

“What is it?” the minister asked.

“Devise some method, suggest some course of treatment, whereby my tried and trusty horse Pleurisy will cease to look so much like a saw-horse.  I’m afraid the Humane Society will get after me.”

The minister laughed.

Everybody knew Dr. Clay’s horse; there was no danger of mistaking him for any other.  He was tall and lean and gaunt.  The doctor had bought him believing him to be in poor condition, which good food and good care would remedy.  But as the months went by, in spite of all the doctor could do, Pleurisy remained the same, eating everything the doctor brought him, and looking for more, but showing no improvement.