two o'clock A.M.
No , you would n't think the Doctor 's office a grewsome place , and you certainly would n't think the Doctor was a grewsome person -- not when you come to know him . If you met him out on Sunday afternoon in his black clothes , white neck-cloth , and well-brushed hat , his gray hair straggling over his coat-collar , pounding his cane on the pavement as he walked , you would say he had a Sunday-school class somewhere . If you should come upon him suddenly , seated before his fire , his gold spectacles clinging to his finely chiselled nose , his thoughtful face bending over his book , you would conclude that you had interrupted some savant , and bow yourself out . But you must ring his bell at night -- say two o'clock A.M. ; catch his cheery voice calling through the tube from his bedroom in the rear -- `` Yes ; coming right away -- be there soon as I get my clothes on '' -- feel the strength and sympathy and readiness to help in the man , and try to keep step with him as he hurries on , and then watch him when he enters the sick-room , diffusing hope and cheer and confidence , and listen to the soft , soothing tones of his voice , before you really get at the inside lining of `` Doc '' Shipman . All this brings me to the story . Of course , I could have told you the bare facts without giving you an idea of the man and his surroundings , but that would n't be fair to you , for you would have missed knowing the Doctor , and I the opportunity of introducing him to you . We were sitting in the old-fashioned office , then , one snowy night in January , the Doctor leaning back in his chair , his meerschaum pipe in his mouth -- the one with the gold cap that a long-ago patient gave him -- when he straightened his back and tugged at his fob , bringing to the surface a small gold watch -- one I had not seen before .