"You've waited too long before seeking help," continued John, getting to his feet. "There's a chance for you—a slim one, but I'll do what I can."
He found a rickety chair, and sat down gingerly.
The older children began to snuffle, and the younger ones burst out crying and ran to their mother, hiding their dirty faces in her dirtier clothes.
"Small chance in this reeking hole for a man with small-pox," mused Glenning, then he looked at Mrs. Scribbens, and said:
"That man should have a bath, first of all, from head to foot; a scrubbing. Can you give it to him?"
"I 'low I kin," responded the woman, briskly, "but weuns ain't much on the wash. Will lye soap do, doc?"
John cast a look at the sick man, and guessed at the texture of his skin.
"Yes, lye soap will do, but have your water hot, and rinse him off well when you're through. I'm going to leave some medicine which I want you to give him through the night."
Mrs. Scribbens disappeared out a door in the rear which led to the back premises, and busied herself making a fire under a large iron kettle which hung from a blackened limb, itself supported by two forked sticks sunk in the ground. The numerous progeny trooped after her en masse, vaguely sensing an omen of evil in the presence of the doctor, and turning, like little wild things, to their best friend and protector.
Glenning had his case on his knees, rapidly preparing the doses to be given that night. There was a slight movement from the pallet, and a terror-laden voice called——