The office was a cluttered, smelly hall along the north side of the house; a partition between two rooms had been taken out in order to fashion it. The walls reeked with red-and-blue charts of the human body, and steel engravings of famous surgeons. In the exact center of the apartment stood a long, high table covered with black oilcloth, and with a padded cushion for a head-rest. Against the south wall rested a row of unmatched cabinets, some with glass doors, some without.

In this room was the supreme attainment of medical arts, as practised in Gettysburg. On that big, black table, Duffey had more than once proposed to relieve Huddlestone’s rupture by an operation. He believed it possible to do so, but could promise nothing … Elijah shuddered when he thought of ether, of the drugged helplessness from which he might not return.

He said, “Doc, there’s strychnine in your little satchel … no, I mean the old one on your desk. This one.” He caught up the bag, and Duffey followed him to the door, flexing his stiff fingers inside the white flannel mittens. Outside there was a peculiar tonic quality to the air—a vast and flowery emptiness within all atmosphere, and into this vacuum you might plunge your face, and drink deeply, and be refreshed.

Doc climbed into the carryall beside his driver. Sitting thus, he seemed nearly as tall as Huddlestone, for the aged cushion on the driver’s side was pressed to a deep hollow by years of the doctor’s weight; Elijah sat in the round hole, inches lower than the surrounding surface. The carriage had a decided right-hand slant … They turned left toward York street, and west once more through the Diamond. Cautious smoke crept up from a few kitchen chimneys; an early workman thudded his way south under the arching trees of Baltimore street. “It’s a great morning to die, Elijah,” said Adam Duffey.

At the extreme edge of town, when they had passed the Knouse and Bale houses and moved up a long slope toward Cashtown, they saw a strange caravan poised for a moment on the rim of Oak Ridge, then spilling rapidly downhill toward them. Elijah pulled over with one wheel in the weeds.

The wagon which rocked unsteadily in their direction was an ancient vehicle, with blistered blue paint scabbing on its wooden sides. Two deep-chested horses, muddy-hocked and panting, tossed their heads and began to shy away from the carryall. The wagon was crammed with children, upended chairs, lamps, women, cloth bundles. Behind it rode a pale boy on another horse. A lame shepherd dog, staggering on three legs, began a challenging bark which ended in a howl.

“It’s Antiques and Horribles,” grunted Duffey, “sure as you’re born!”

The wagon crashed to a halt opposite the rig. A fat-eyed man in sweaty denim waved a broken willow switch. “They come to Jambersburg!” he roared.