Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 155, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 June 1910 — FOUGHT OFF DEATH. [ARTICLE]

FOUGHT OFF DEATH.

The Respite Dr. Shrady Bravely Won lor General Grant. “You can see the conditions —General Grant is dying now,” came Dr. Douglas’ voice in broken tones. The Rev. Dr. Newman had knelt by the bedside and, holding one of the man’s nerveless hands, began to pray. “You see the preacher Is busy, and the doctors ought to be busy, too,” Dr. Shrady whispered grimly to his senior coleague. “It would be a torment without avail,” sighed the senior. So there stood the medical code warding off succor from the dying man. The general must expire, perchance, because the Initiative belonged to a man without any at the moment. Douglas inust consent. Shrady must not be shackled. He turned again to the patient, leaned above hffii a moment and touched his pulse. He twisted the gray goatee in nervous twitches. Suddenly he turned again, ultimate resolve in his face, and tiptoed again to where his colleague was. “I say, Douglas, something must be done. If this man dies'here now, what can we say to the medical world? Every doctor on earth will want to know what and when were the last shots we fired.'Shall we tell them that Tor ten minutes at the last, half an hour so far as I know, we stood idly and stared at a dying man? The old doctor stirred wearily and turned a hopeless and therefore helpless face to the younger one also; there was In its lines a touch of wonder. “Douglas, It would damn us both eternally, and It ought to. Perhaps you can afford It, hut I can’t, either as a physician or a human being. Something's got to be done, Douglas. It won’t do, I tell you.” "Do! But what would you do—now?” glancing pityingly at the family group and the slowly gasping man on the bed. “Something, anything—a hypodermic of brandy first!” “Oh, If you wish to try It —yes.” It had been enough. The code, was satisfied. Shrady was filling the little silver syringe with the ardent liquor from French hillsides. Something was being done. ' Members of the family turned to watch. The manner of its doing somehow inspired them, and the older doctor, looking on, drew near. The left arm of the dying man was bared, the slender hollow needle found its way, and the potent brandy mingled with the blood. The Rev. Dr. Newman had risen from his praying. Shrady was half kneeling in his place. Both by different means sought the same end. Keenly the young doctor leaned to the patient. AIT his other senses had lent their powers to those of sight and hearing. The tiny instrument gleamed between thumb and finger of his still extended hand. There was a slight catch In the general’s throat, followed by a half sigh. Swiftly a new look came into the face of each physician; swiftly the younger refilled the little syringe and hurried to the other side of the couch. Then through the right arm sprang the potent fluid, and again they waited the result—very soon a long, fluttering sigh; then a longer, stronger inspiration; then measured breathing and finally consciousness. When General Grant lay dying that April morning the work on his me olrs, which netted his family one-half million dollars, was little more than half finished. He lived seventeen weeks afterward, finished his task and was ready to go.—Frank W. Hatch In Saturday Evening Post.