"While there's hope there's life at that age," said Gran'pa. "It'll give him a new interest in existence. In a business like this we can't be influenced by sentimental considerations."
We had letters from people who wished to rejuvenate their parents or grandparents, from people who were under 70 (but felt slightly over), and a few from old ladies. One of these last, a spinster, wished to remain on earth a few years longer in order to look after her dogs and to minister to "poor dumb creatures" belonging to others. We even had an application from a ninety-one-year-old member of the House of Lords, who was evidently dreaming of his lost greatness and hoping that, with youth on his side, he might be able to stem the tide of the new labor movement and save Britain from the dogs. His letter was really an essay on politics, liberally peppered with "damns."
"Here's a rigmarole from a lord," I said to Gran'pa. "He has a mission to perform in the way of . . ."
"So have I," answered Gran'pa, tersely. "I'm an American—a republican. These wonderful, complicated and aristocratic titles all leave me cold. Let him die—or get his own glands."
A little reluctantly, I put the coronetted notepaper among the rejected and turned to the next application.
"Sir," it began austerely, "If your appeal is genuine I would have you beware, lest by tampering with the inscrutable laws of nature, you bring down on your head the malediction of God. According to our deserts are we spared to live on this earth," and so on. . . .
"According to our deserts!" exclaimed Gran'pa, when I showed him the document. "What about the youngsters who were killed in the war? . . . Burn the damned thing, George! . . . And listen to this:—
"'Dear Sir,
"'I'm a man of 81 with the heart and brain of a youngster. I want to live another twenty or thirty years because I think that the next two or three decades will be crammed with more progress (and excitement!) than the whole of the last century. Having survived the crawling stage, the human race is beginning to run. By the greatest misfortune in life, I was born eighty years too soon. I can't alter it now, but I can at least mitigate the blow—with your help. If you have the hundredth place still vacant, will you temporarily reserve it for me until I have the pleasure of a personal interview? I am willing to defray the cost of my own treatment and of any six others you care to choose as worthy of your philanthropy.
"Sincerely yours,
"Thomas Finikins."
"If that man isn't an American," cried Gran'pa, "I'll give a thousand dollars to the first beggar I meet. We'll include him, George. I like the tone of the letter, too. It shows a zest in life. Just the thing we want in these blasé days."
So Thomas joined the ranks of the chosen!