ion being necessary we can wire him."

The next day Dr. Clay wired for the famous specialist, and in a few
hours the answer came back that Dr. MacTavish could not leave the
city. Dr. Clay had gone back to Libby Anne's bedside before the
message came, and so it was to Sandy Braden that it was delivered.

It took Sandy Braden an hour to write his reply, and the wiring of it
cost him four dollars, but it really was a marvel in its way--it was
a wonderful production from a literary standpoint, and it was
marvellous in its effect, for it caused Dr. John MacTavish, late of
Glasgow, Scotland, to change his mind. He was just about to leave his
house to deliver an address before the Medical Association when this,
the longest telegram he had ever received, was handed to him. He read
it through carefully, looked out at the gathering snowstorm, shrugged
his shoulders, read it again, this time aloud, then telephoned his
regrets to the Medical Association.

The storm, which had been threatening for several days, was at its
height when the train, four hours late, came hoarsely blowing down
the long grade into Millford. Sandy Braden was waiting on the
storm-swept platform for the doctor, and took him at once to his
hotel, where a hot supper was waiting for him.

When the doctor had finished his supper he was in a much better
humour, which, however, speedily vanished when his host informed him
that the patient was in the country, and that they would drive out at
once.

"I won't go," declared Dr. MacTavish bluntly. "I won't go out in a
blizzard like this for anyone. It's fifteen degrees below zero and a
terrific wind blowing, and the night as black as ink. I won't go,
that's all there is about it."

"Now look here, Doctor MacTavish," Sandy Braden said, persuasively,
"I know it's a dreadful night but I have the best team in this
country, and I know every inch of the road. I'll get you there!"

"I won't go," said the doctor, in exactly the same tone as before.

"And besides," Sandy Braden went on, other man had not spoken, "the
little girl is ill, an operation is necessary, and the doctor is
counting on you. It is now we need you, and you must come. Think of
the poor mother--this little kid is all she has"----

"I know all that, and I'm sorry for her, and for you, too, but I
won't go a step in this storm. Don't waste your breath. Don't you
know you can't move a Scotchman? I know my own business best."

Sandy Braden controlled h