Dr. Wright's telephone rang early next morning. The doctor was prompt to respond. His practice had not yet reached the stage that rendered the telephone a burden. His young wife stood beside him, listening with eager hope in her wide-open brown eyes.
"Yes," said the doctor. "Oh, it's you. Delighted to hear your ring." "No, not so terribly. The rush doesn't begin till later in the day." "Not at all. What can I do for you?" "Certainly, delighted." "What? Right away?" "Well, say within an hour."
"Who is it?" asked his wife, as the doctor hung up the phone. "A new family?"
"No such luck," replied the doctor. "This has been a frightfully healthy season. But the spring promises a very satisfactory typhoid epidemic."
"Who is it?" said his wife again, impatiently.
"Your friend Mrs. French, inviting me to an expedition into the foreign colony."
"Oh!" She could not keep the disappointment out of her tone. "I think Mrs. French might call some of the other doctors."
"So she does, lots of them. And most of them stand ready to obey her call."
"Well," said the little woman at his side, "I think you are going too much among those awful people."
"Awful people?" exclaimed the doctor. "It's awfully good practice, I know. That is, in certain lines. I can't say there is very much variety. When a really good thing occurs, it is whisked off to the hospital and the big guns get it."
"Well, I don't like your going so much," persisted his wife. "Some day you will get hurt."
"Hurt?" exclaimed the doctor. "Me?"
"Oh, I know you think nothing can hurt you. But a bullet or a knife can do for you as well as for any one else. Supposing that terrible man--what's his name?--Kalmar--had struck you instead of the Polak, where would you be?"
"The question is, where would he be?" said the doctor with a smile.
"As for Kalmar, he's not too bad a sort; at least there are others a little worse. I shouldn't be surprised if that fellow Rosenblatt got only a little less than he deserved. Certainly O'Hara let in some light upon his moral ulcers."
"Well, I wish you would drop them, anyway," continued his wife.
"No, you don't," said the doctor. "You know quite well that you would root me out of bed any hour of the night to see any of their kiddies that happened to have a pain in their little tumtums.
Between you and Mrs. French I haven't a moment to devote to my large and growing practice."
"What does she want now?" It must be confessed that her tone was slightly impatient.
"Mrs. French has succeeded in getting the excellent Mrs. Blazowski to promise for the tenth time, I believe, to allow some one, preferably myself, to take her eczematic children to the hospital."
"Well, she won't."
"I think it is altogether likely. But why do you think so?"
"Because you have tried before."
"Never."
"Well, Mrs. French has, and you were with her."
"That is correct. But to-day I shall adopt new tactics. Mrs.
French's flank movements have broken down. I shall carry the position with a straight frontal attack. And I shall succeed.
If not, my dear, that little fur tippet thing which you have so resolutely refused to let your eyes rest upon as we pass the Hudson's Bay, is yours."
"I don't want it a bit," said his wife. "And you know we can't afford it."
"Don't you worry, little girl," said the doctor cheerfully, "practice is looking up. My name is getting into the papers. A few more foreign weddings with attendant killings and I shall be famous."
At the Blazowski shack Mrs. French was waiting the doctor, and in despair. A crowd of children appeared to fill the shack and overflow through the door into the sunny space outside, on the sheltered side of the house.
The doctor made his way through them and passed into the evil-smelling, filthy room. For Mrs. Blazowski found it a task beyond her ability to perform the domestic duties attaching to the care of seven children and a like number of boarders in her single room.
Mrs. French was seated on a stool with a little child of three years upon her knee.
"Doctor, don't you think that these children ought to go to the hospital to-day?" she said, as the doctor entered.
"Why, sure thing; they must go. Let's look at them."
He tried to take the little child from Mrs. French's knee, but the little one vehemently objected.
"Well, let's look at you, anyway," said the doctor, proceeding to unwind some filthy rags from the little one's head. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed in a low voice, "this is truly awful!"
The hair was matted with festering scabs. The ears, the eyes, the fingers were full of running sores.
"I had no idea this thing had gone so far," he said in a horrified voice.
"What is it?" said Mrs. French. "Is it--"
"No, not itch. It is the industrious and persevering eczema pusculosum, known to the laity as salt rheum of the domestic variety."
"It has certainly got worse this last week," said Mrs. French.
"Well, this can't go on another day, and I can't treat her here.
She must go. Tell your mother," said the doctor in a decided tone to a little girl of thirteen who stood near.
Mrs. Blazowski threw up her hands with voluble protestation. "She says they will not go. She put grease on and make them all right."
"Grease!" exclaimed the doctor. "I should say so, and a good many other things too! Why, the girl's head is alive with them!
Heavens above!" said the doctor, turning to Mrs. French, "she's running over with vermin! Let's see the other."
He turned to a girl of five, whose head and face were even more seriously affected with the dread disease.
"Why, bless my soul! This girl will lose her eyesight! Now look here, these children must go to the hospital, and must go now.
Tell your mother what I say."
Again the little girl translated, and again the mother made emphatic reply.
"What does she say?"
"She say she not let them go. She fix them herself. Fix them all right."
"Perhaps we better wait, Doctor," interposed Mrs. French. "I'll talk to her and we'll try another day."
