"Let me tell you," said the youth eagerly, "I have a preparation—I'm a chemist, you know—I've worked out a powder that kills flies."
Watts looked up from his pillow. His face was weary.
"It's sweet, you know, and attracts them," went on the boy, "then the least sniff of it finishes them. They trail away, and die in a few minutes. You can clear a room in half an hour. Then all you have to do is to sweep up."
"See here," he said, "I'll show you. Sister," he called. The nurse hurried to his side.
"Sister? You were kind enough to save my kit. May I have it a moment?"
He took out a tin flask, and squeezed it—a brown powder puffed through the pin-point holes at the mouth. It settled in a dust on the white coverlet.
"Please be very quiet," he said. He settled back, as if for sleep, but his half-shut eyes were watchful. A couple of minutes passed, then a fly circled his head, and made for the spot on the spread. It nosed its way in, crawled heavily a few inches up the coverlet, and turned its legs up. Two more came, alighted, sniffed and died.
"You see," he said.
Next day, the head of the Coxyde Poste motored over to Furnes for a call on his wounded helper.