Dear Enemy

I stayed up later than usual last night putting my desk in order

and--sort of making up my mind to face the New Year. Toward twelve I

suddenly realized that the hour was late and that I was very tired. I

had begun getting ready for bed when I was startled by a banging on

the front door. I stuck my head out of the window and demanded who was

there.

"Tommy Kehoe," said a very shaky voice.

I went down and opened the door, and that lad, sixteen years old,

tumbled in, dead drunk. Thank Heaven! Percy Witherspoon was within call,

and not away off in the Indian camp.

I roused him, and together we conveyed Thomas to our guest room, the

only decently isolated spot in the building. Then I telephoned for the

doctor, who, I am afraid, had already had a long day. He came, and we

put in a pretty terrible night. It developed afterward that the boy had

brought along with his luggage a bottle of liniment belonging to his

employer. It was made half of alcohol and half of witch hazel; and

Thomas had refreshed his journey with this!

He was in such shape that positively I didn't think we'd pull him

through--and I hoped we wouldn't. If I were a physician, I'd let such

cases gently slip away for the good of society; but you should have seen

Sandy work! That terrible lifesaving instinct of his was aroused, and he

fought with every inch of energy he possessed.

I made black coffee, and helped all I could, but the details were pretty

messy, and I left the two men to deal with him alone and went back to

my room. But I didn't attempt to go to bed; I was afraid they might be

wanting me again. Toward four o'clock Sandy came to my library with

word that the boy was asleep and that Percy had moved up a cot and would

sleep in his room the rest of the night. Poor Sandy looked sort of ashen

and haggard and done with life. As I looked at him, I thought about how

desperately he worked to save others, and never saved himself, and about

that dismal home of his, with never a touch of cheer, and the horrible

tragedy in the background of his life. All the rancor I've been saving

up seemed to vanish, and a wave of sympathy swept over me. I stretched

my hand out to him; he stretched his out to me. And suddenly--I don't

know--something electric happened. In another moment we were in each

other's arms. He loosened my hands, and put me down in the big armchair.