Tom the cook came in with the chops and the potatoes—the doctor's dinner—and McClintock fell to with a gusto which suggested that there was still some liver under his ribs. The doctor smoked his pipe thoughtfully.
"Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?"
"Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. "Sounds as if I had heard it, but I can't place it this minute. Certainly I never met him. Why?"
"I was just wondering. You say you need a man. Just how particular are you? Will he have to bring recommendations?"
"He will not. His face will be all I need. Have you got someone in mind for me?"
"Finish your breakfast and I'll tell you the story." Ten minutes later, the doctor, having marshalled all his facts chronologically, began his tale. He made it brief. "Of course, I haven't the least evidence that the boy has done anything wrong; it's what I'd call a hunch; piecing this and that together."
"Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table.
"Yes. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. Pretty good stuff, some of it. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely."
"I don't know," said McClintock.
"But you said you weren't particular. Moreover, he's a Yale
University man, and he'd be good company."