In spite of the suddenness of grandpa's arrival and the extremity of his age, for over a year we lived amicably together. Except for a tendency to be deaf and wilful at times, he gave little trouble. He ate very little, he said very little, and he listened only when shouted at. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to describe my home—at that time—as a true haven of rest.
Picture it! There was Gran'pa, aged ninety-five—a nodder by the fire, a mumbler of tedious trifles, a scoffer at the present, but a relic of the past; there was myself, aged thirty-two—a widower, a respectable salaried official, moderately lazy and living principally and peacefully for the day (because there was not much to look forward to in the morrow); there was Molly, my twelve-year-old offspring—a long-legged schoolgirl, who ought to have been born a boy (like most girls of this generation); and there was Nanny, aged anything over fifty—the white-haired, sweet-tempered, motherly old thing who had been one of the "supers" present at my initial entrance on the world's stage.
There we were, the four of us! We never quarrelled, or argued, or indulged in riotous living, or suffered want, or did anything particularly exciting. We went on from day to day and from night to night like most of the other 40,000 people in our suburb. Big things happened in New York, in London, in Paris, in Moscow, in Berlin—or in the wide heavens above and the sea beneath—and we read journalistic and exaggerated accounts of these events in the morning papers, with mild interest and occasional emotion. We were just one of the individual family vertebræ of that middle class backbone which has made England the nation that it is—a rather self-centred, fairly intelligent, and very inquisitive community.
Then came that innocent-looking newspaper announcement concerning the new theory of rejuvenation by means of glandular graftings. It ran as follows:—
OLD TO BE MADE YOUNG.
ELIXIR OF LIFE IN MONKEY GLANDS.(From Our Own Correspondent.)
Paris, Wednesday.
At the Surgery Congress to-day the amazing statement was made that human life may be prolonged far beyond the allotted span by means of grafting young healthy glands, which will either replace or repair those deteriorated through old age.
A scientist has already succeeded in grafting some interstitial glands (the secretions of which hold the source of vital forces) to old goats and rams, which soon recovered their youth and vigor.
He is of the opinion that his laboratory experiments can be introduced into the operating theatre, and considers that an interstitial gland of a monkey grafted on an old man will restore him his youth.
It is interesting to note that five years ago the thyroid glands taken from a monkey were grafted on to a boy of fourteen, who was an idiot. The result was absolutely successful, for two years later the boy became completely normal and in 1917 went into the Army. . . .
I read it—as did most of my 40,000 suburban fellow-citizens—with a detached and half-incredulous feeling of, "Tut! tut! Whatever will they be up to next?"
After a moment's consideration, I put the paper in my pocket, intending presently to burn it. Gran'pa was a doddering old man who was always adopting the "If-only-I-were-twenty-years-younger" pose. He had tried many nostrums and followed much advice, with varying success, and I thought that it would be inadvisable for him to read of this latest and most nonsensical theory. It would only make him restless and fidgety. So it seemed best to burn the newspaper and keep the matter quiet.
I was reckoning without two things, however—modern journalism and modern children. The papers started booming the discovery, it caught Molly's eye, and Molly passed on a particularly lurid account of it to Gran'pa. Her method was simple and tactful. She cut the article out and dropped it in Gran'pa's bedroom.
The next morning, an open volume of The Encyclopædia Britannica lay on the breakfast table, and, looking through its pages in deep contemplation, was Gran'pa, so engrossed and so deaf that he was evidently unaware of my presence in the room.
I crept up behind him, peered over his shoulder, and caught sight of the word—"GLANDERS," and then—"GLANDS."