“State it for a fact. Don’t hedge on report.”
“I don’t. This man served his time. If he hadn’t, Bobo wouldn’t be here.”
“O? Poor Bobo!”
“This man, I say, survived the ghastly ordeal—one case out of a dozen that succumb. Then he got his fee.”
“O, a fee! What was that? A Rachel of the bogs?”
“The power to cure by touch any human sickness, even the most humanly baffling.”
“Really a royal reward. It’s easy to see a fortune in it.”
“He would have been welcome to mine; but he would take nothing. He made my little boy whole again.”
“Kelvin! I dare say I’m a brute. What had been the matter with him?”
“Ah, what! He simply moaned and wasted—moaned eternally. Atrophy; meningitis; cachexy—they gave it a dozen names, but not a single cure. He was dying under slow torture—a heavy sight for a father.