“Carrie has a sore throat, George.”
“It hurts when I swallow, Doctor Goodfellow,” Carrie volunteered. “It feels like it is burning.”
George smiled at her and inspected her throat with a throat mirror and a tongue depressor. Then he felt her neck for swollen glands.
“No pus present and no gland swelling. It will be fine in a few days.”
He went to his cabinet and dished a few Coltsfoot lozenges into a box. He handed them to Stanley. “I want you to suck one of these four times a day, Carrie. They will soothe that burning feeling.”
“That’s a relief, George,” Stanley said. “I always get a bit nervous when she gets sore throats. Just in case, you know.”
George knew only too well. A couple of years back the six-year-old young son of one Stanley’s printers had developed a sore throat, which had proved to be diphtheria. He had died two days later and his distraught mother had sunk into melancholy and effectively starved herself to death.
George had not been the family doctor and he had been alarmed to hear that the doctor concerned had delayed doing a tracheotomy, which would probably have saved him, but instead went on treating him with hot fomentations to the throat and some sort of cough elixir. When Stanley asked George’s opinion about the care given he had declined to directly criticize another doctor, but had merely stated that he would have operated. Stanley had understood what George meant and wrote a scathing article in the Tombstone Prospector, the end result being that the said doctor’s practice dwindled to nothing and he left, as Stanley said in a later article, to start his malpractice in some other unfortunate town.
“Edith and I were talking about you Carrie,” George went on as he sat and made a note of his treatment on a record card. “She wants to come to your school until she goes back east.”
Carrie’s face burst into a wide grin. “Oh goodie, goodie! We can have such fun.”
“Of course, I will have to have a word with Mister Levine, the head teacher first.”
“All sounds excellent, George,” Stanley said. “Why not ask him tonight at the Schieffelin Hall? There’s a theater group doing a Medley of Shakespeare Scenes tonight. I know he’ll be going and I thought you were too.”
“It slipped my mind, Stanley. I’ve been a bit pre-occupied. Maybe Carlton won’t be there either.”
“Because of his wife, Esme? I understand she’s been poorly lately.”
“She has and I’ll be seeing her tomorrow.” He nodded pensively. “Shakespeare, eh? I guess I’ll see you at the Schieffelin Hall tonight then.”
Stanley smiled. “And maybe we’ll go to the Oriental Saloon afterwards. There’s due to be an arm wrestling competition later tonight, if you remember? I’m sure Carlton will be there if he can.”
“Of course. I forgot about the arm wrestling.”
Stanley laughed. “Goodness, something really has been eating at your memory, George. How can you forget? It was you, after all who initiated these competitions.”
George smiled at Carrie who had started to giggle. “Your father is right, Carrie. In my younger days I did enjoy physical competition.”
“You did. Not only did you start these arm-wrestling bouts, but you also started the odd boxing bout, and have been both a fighter and a referee.”
“I used to box when I was at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis,” George explained.
“He was the champion,” Stanley added. “And he never lost a bout in Tombstone, despite being up against some of these miners who are all solid muscle.”
George stroked his mustache. “Science, Stanley. Boxing is an art and a science. Don’t lose your temper, but be scientific in the way you fight, those are my personal rules.”
Carrie stared up at George with wide-eyed amazement. “I can’t believe that our doctor used to be a boxer.”
Stanley stood up and Carrie did likewise. “Well, dear, I wouldn’t be surprised if Doctor Goodfellow didn’t have a go at arm-wrestling again this evening.”
Carrie giggled anew.
* * *
The Medley of Shakespeare Scenes performed by The Strolling Players Theater Troup was less than spectacular, George thought. He had met Stanley and Carlton in the foyer and had a drink at the bar before taking their seats. While George enjoyed a little Shakespeare when it was done well, he could barely tolerate it when it was acted badly.
And the Strolling Players Theater Troup performed so poorly that the audience started to boo and slow handclap. It was not the boisterous and demonstrative booing that performers at the Bird Cage Theater had to put up with, when eggs, fruit or even bottles could be tossed at them, yet it was enough to make the players curtail their performance and cancel the following night’s performance.
But it allowed George, Stanley and Carlton to head for the Oriental Saloon earlier than they had intended.
Over a beer at the bar George asked about Esme.
“She’s still poorly, George. I’m getting a bit worried about her actually. I wanted her to see Doctor Matthews while you were away, but she straight refused. I wasn’t going to come this evening either, but she insisted that I did.”
“I’ll call on her tomorrow,” George said, reassuringly. “Which brings me to another matter. Edith would like to attend school here until she goes back east. I think it would distract her from losing her mother.”
“Plus, my Carrie would welcome her and make sure she settles in,” said Stanley.
“I can’t see any reason why not. Just bring her along in the morning.”
“Excellent! Your good health, gentlemen.”
They clinked glasses and drained them. George signaled to the barkeeper for refills.
While the barkeeper tended to the order one of the other bartenders, known to everyone as Abe, banged a bottle on the counter to gain everyone’s attention in the crowded saloon.
“Roll up, gents! Roll up. Time for the arm wrestling competition. Anyone can enter for a dollar. We’ll put names in a hat, each pair of competitors will have the best of three bouts and it will be a knockout competition.” He tossed a piece of chalk in the air and tapped a blackboard on the wall. “I’ll do the draw here so it is all above board and fair.”
He spotted George and raised his voice. “And we have Doctor Goodfellow himself here this evening, men. As you know, he was our undefeated champion for a whole year a few years ago. Will you look after any injuries, sir?”
“As long as I get a fee,” George returned. “And anyone who doesn’t pay a fee will get their other arm twisted by me!”
His joke occasioned general banter and hilarity, much to George’s further enjoyment.
The barkeeper laughed. “Can we tempt you to enter the competition yourself, sir?”
George shook his head. ‘I’ll stick to watching, doctoring and drinking this evening, thanks Abe.”
“And what about you sir, Mister Levine?” Abe called out. “You are a strong looking fellow and you look as if you could give the good doctor a run for his money?”
Carlton shook his head with a modest laugh. “It’s a bit too physical for my taste. I’m the bookish type and I prefer other games.”
“Plenty of other games here, sir,” Abe shouted back. “Right ladies?”
Several of the saloon girls gave coquettish gestures and a couple made lewd remarks, which sent a wave of raucous laughter around the saloon.
“Or what about you, Mister Bagg?” Abe went on, enjoying the response he was obtaining from the saloon clientele. “Would you care to part with a dollar and try your arm at wrestling?”
At five foot tall Stanley was used to being the butt of saloon humor. He didn’t let it bother him, since he knew that he could hold his own in any verbal battle. “No, I’ll just watch and make notes. And report on the standard of entertainment in a column tomorrow.”
Abe took the message and switched attention back to the blackboard and the top hat that he had placed on the bar in readiness to receive names of the
arm wrestlers.
* * *
The competition started in earnest at several tables, each of which accumulated a crowd as friends and well-wishers jostled each other to get a clear view and to urge on their chosen champion. As was the way of such saloon antics, apart from the purse that the arm-wrestlers were vying for there were several other books going on. There were some seriously strong miners and cowboys chancing their arms and accordingly there was much money riding on each bout.
George, Stanley and Carlton looked on from the bar.
“Are you tempted, George?” Stanley asked, looking up at his friend.
“Not a bit.”
“Well, what did you think about Abe’s remark,” Carlton asked, “do you think I’d give you a run for your money?”
“Are you challenging me, Carlton?” George responded in surprise.
“Just joshing. I suppose I’m wondering how I would fare myself against some of these man-mountains.”
“You could always drop your dollar in the hat,” George said. “Abe will accept another entrant at this stage.”
Stanley shook his head. “Typical! The trial of strength impulse is a hanger on from the days of the cavemen. But it isn’t brawn that made mankind so successful, it was his brain.”
George laughed. “Spoken like a true newspaperman and man of letters.”
“But it is true, George. The pen is mightier than the sword. That means that the man who thinks fastest wins. We could always put it to the test.”
Carlton sipped his beer. “What are you proposing, Stanley?”
“Chess! Let’s the three of us have a competition right here. You both play, don’t you?”
“You know we do, Stanley, although I haven’t played in a couple of years,” George said, filling his pipe. “But the last I heard the Oriental Saloon only runs to gambling games. There may be a checkers board, but I doubt if there will be a chess set.”
“In that case, give me a few minutes and I’ll go and get mine,” Stanley said, replacing his beer on the counter and heading off through the crowds.
“Well, Carlton, I guess we’ll have to humor Stanley. Watch out though, he may be a small fellow, but like a lot of little chaps he can be as competitive as hell.”
“I know, George. He certainly doesn’t mince his words in his columns in either the Prospector or the Epitaph. He wields his pen like it was a saber.”
“Do you play much chess?”
“Oh, you know me, George. I like all board games.”
George snapped his fingers. “Of course, you were teaching the children about tactics, weren’t you?”
“I was, but I hasten to add that I’m nowhere near as good a chess player as Esme. She can plot a game four or even five moves ahead.”
“Remind me never to play her then,” said George, striking a light to his pipe. “Let’s head over to that table in the corner. It won’t be any quieter, but at least we will be less likely to get jostled.”
Indeed, the noise from around the saloon was getting louder and louder as the competitors fought, gradually whittling the numbers down.
Stanley returned and spotted them in the corner. He came over and lay the chessboard on the table.
“Right gentlemen,” he said, as he set out the pieces. “I suggest we have a round robin competition. Each of us plays the other two.”
“And we each put in what, five dollars?” George suggested.
“A confident man,” joked Carlton. “How about making it ten?”
“Have some confidence I your ability, gentlemen, let’s make it fifty,” said Stanley, as he left to collect his drink from the bar.
George winked at Carlton. “See what I mean?”
When he returned, Stanley pushed his wire-framed spectacles back on his nose and lit a fresh cigar.
He coughed then raised his hand. “Not a word, George Goodfellow! I know cigars don’t help my chest, but they help me concentrate. And this is a concentrating game.”
“What happens if we each win a game and all end up with one win? Carlton asked.
“Then we all play each other again, until we have an outright winner,” Stanley replied.
“And what if one of us wins twice and one wins once?” George queried.
“Then the two times winner takes one hundred dollars and the one time winner takes fifty. The two time loser gets nothing.”
And so, the principle established, it began.
It did not take long before some of the arm-wrestling spectators drifted away from the tables and started to congregate around the chess players. Soon folks were cheering and urging George and Stanley on. Clearly, most folks had little idea what the game involved for they thought that gusto and encouragement would be bound to help.
“Quieten down folks!” George snapped. “This isn’t like arm-wrestling you know. A player needs to think, and to think he needs some peace and quiet. Now shush!”
He moved his bishop across the board, noticing too late that he had opened up a hole in his defense. Stanley had anticipated it, however, and moved in to take the game five moves later.
And so Stanley notched up his game against George and promptly reset the pieces to take on Carlton.
This match was quicker than the one with George. Indeed, George noted the different styles of play by his opponents. Stanley played classically, aiming to control the middle of the board. Carlton on the other hand played the so-called Romantic way. He was attacking, bold and determined always to win or lose with panache.
Again, Stanley was the victor, which left George and Carlton to play for the second prize.
George noted that Carlton was using the Sicilian Defense, which suited his style of play. Accordingly, he tried to play like Stanley and establish mastery over the center board.
But Carlton was unpredictable. He sacrificed a bishop and then a knight, giving George a smug glow.
Too smug, because he missed the check and before he knew it, it was checkmate.
Cheers went up from the crowd, who inexplicably had switched allegiance from the brawny arm-wrestling to watch the brain-powered chess tournament. Much to his discomfiture, Stanley was hoisted aloft and carried upon many hefty shoulders to the bar, where he was deposited on top, as if it was a stage.
“Well, I guess the beer is on me,” he called out. “Just one each, though!”
There was a rapid move of people to the bar.
Carlton stuffed his fifty dollars back in his wallet. “Hard luck, George. Stanley got the better of us tonight.”
“There was no luck involved, Carlton. The little fellow sand-bagged us, I think. And you outplayed me, too. I reckon I’ll call it a night. I’ll drop Edith at the school tomorrow, then I’ll call in to see Esme. Good night.”
George shouldered his way through the crowd, noticing that the finalists of the arm-wrestling were still straining against one another, watched by a few stragglers. But he was not in a good mood. Although he did not begrudge Stanley his victory, yet he did resent the way that the saloon crowd were fawning over him. It was something that he was used to and he hated to admit it to himself, but he was not a good loser.
Chapter 9
LUCREZIA
Edith was in a high state of excitement the next morning when George walked her to school.
“This is going to be the best of days, Daddy,” she said as she held onto his hand.
“I am sure it will be, Princess. You will probably know all of the other pupils, or at least know them by sight. It may be strange having other children of different ages in the same class, but Tombstone is still a young town and the school hasn’t had time to develop like the one you are used to.”
“It’s going to be fun, Daddy. And as you often say, it is good to experience different things.”
They walked turned the corner and saw a group of children waiting outside the schoolhouse at Fourth and Toughnut Streets. Right next door was the Tombstone Library, which had been built in 1885 and run by George’s friend George
Whitewell Parsons. Parsons had been injured in a fire in the Abbot House, when he got caught on the balcony. A wood beam fell and struck him in the face, smashing his nose and breaking his jaw. George operated on him several times, improvising operations as he went on and effectively rebuilt his nose. The whole town had been saddened when he left a couple of years later, for he had established the Tombstone Library and put it on a firm footing.
Carrie spotted them coming along and waved. Then she pulled a couple of girls that she had been chatting with and ran to meet them.
“Edith, this is great. You’ll like it here. This is Isabel and this is Dorothy.”
George grinned as the trio surrounded Edith and instantly they were all chattering away.
The school door opened and Carlton came out, holding a large handbell in one hand. Behind him was Fiona Parker.
“Ah, George, you have brought Edith,” Carlton said. “Excuse me one moment while I ring the bell.”
As he rang it, the children, of whom there were about twenty-five of various ages up to teenagers, went quiet and then filed in past him in an orderly, well practiced manner.
“Welcome Edith,” he said as Edith, Carrie, Isabel and Dorothy walked in. Have a seat beside Carrie and I’ll introduce you to the class when I come in. Mrs. Parker is going to be teaching with us this morning.”
As Carlton spoke George noted that he had slightly bloodshot eyes. It was likely that he had caught conjunctivitis from the librarian.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parker,” George said, tipping his hat to her.
“Good morning, Doctor Goodfellow,” she replied with a smile before turning and following the children inside.
“We’ll look after her, don’t worry, George.”
“You are looking a bit worried yourself, Carlton.”
Carlton nodded. “I think Esme’s illness is getting to me, George. She isn’t getting any better, is she?”
“I’ll make her my first call after my morning surgery.”
“Do you know what’s wrong? It seems more than a stomach upset.”
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