Gravybelly Dunstan Is Doing Very Well

 

These are not railroad tracks.

 I can't believe I have to do this, again, Stitches The Railyard Sutureman muttered to himself as he approached a makeshift lectern made of stacked fruit crates, AGAIN. He looked out at the assembled hobo press corps - which here means the ten hoboes who could read and write - and sighed the sigh of a man defeated.

"Gentlemen, I'm pleased to report that Gravybelly Dunstan is doing very well. In the three days since sustaining his injury, in the Cumberland terminal hump yard, he has made great progress, and I am very, very impressed. I've never seen a patient make so much progress so soon after--"

"Excuse me, doc," one of the gathered reporters interrupted, "Did you say three days?"

"What?"

"You said it's been three days since Gravybelly's injury?"

"Oh, yes. That's correct. And as I was saying, given the nature of the injury, his recovery has been remarkable."

Another hobo raised his hand, sending a little cloud of dust into the cool Maryland air. "We were told that this happened early yesterday. It was all over the hobo telegraph. An empty boxcar came rolling down the hill from the hump and clipped him - took his left arm clean off."

The Railyard Sutureman frowned. "That's correct. Before dawn, yesterday. I cauterized the wound with a hot iron, which is an experimental technique I've invented--"

"I'm sorry," another grubby hobo reporter interjected, "to be clear - you're saying this accident happened early yesterday?"

"Correct. And he's really doing very great. So great. He's the greatest patient I've ever treated. I mean, to lose your right arm at the elbow, and and five days later, to be sitting up, eating beans and begging to be released from the hobo hospital camp - it's just amazing."

The raggedy press corps exchanged confused glances. The young reporter from Gravy Times stood up. "I think I speak for everyone here..."

"You don't," several others chorused, beneath their collective breath.

"...when I say that we are very relieved to hear this wonderful and encouraging news about everybody's most favorite hobo. Thank you for your wonderful work and groundbreaking new - what did you call it - cauterizing technique..."

Another hobo snorted. "People have been cauterizing wounds since five minutes after the discovery of fire - and did you say, 'five days later,' Stitches?"

"That's correct."

"But you just said it was early yesterday."

The hobo surgeon shook his head. He silently cursed himself for allowing his life to reach this point. In his pre-hobo life, he had been a student, two years into medical school at NYU. His dream of becoming a doctor had disappeared when his father was ruined in the first months of the Great Depression. His mother left them, one night, never to be heard from again, and his father contracted lethal hiccups soon after, and died from a combination of exhaustion and exasperation. 

Stitches (which was his given name), unable to pay for school - or to find work in the city - joined hobo nation in early 1930. He quickly gained a reputation as a skilled wound sewer-upper, and he wandered the eastern half of the country tending to hobo injuries large and small. He was admired. He was a contributor to hobo society. He came very close to respecting himself. 

Then, he was "hired" to be the private full-time sutureman to Gravybelly Dunstan, the most widely hated hobo since U.S. Fool. He paid in actual pennies, instead of the customary lint, but every other aspect of this "job" was terrible. 

He took a deep breath and looked at the hobo reporter who had asked the last question. "Correct. We cauterized the wound early yesterday. The incident that caused the injury occurred on Sunday. Simple explanation."

"Sunday was six days ago, sir," the reporter said.

"Exactly."

"So, you're saying that Gravybelly was maimed six days ago - not three or five or one-and-a half days ago?"

"Yes."

"And he's doing well?"

"As far as you know, yes."

"What?" The reporter shrugged at the hobo next to him and mouthed the words "Help me."

"As far as we know?" repeated the next hobo.

"It's very simple, fellas," Stitches said. "Gravybelly Dunstan was struck by a runaway caboose on the Western Maryland Railway outside of Frostburg a week ago Thursday, suffered a compound fracture of his lower right leg, was brought to me this morning for surgery, and is healing faster than anyone ever has from anything ever, because he is the strongest and smartest and best, and--"

"But--" 

"No further questions! God bless Gravybelly Dunstan!"