He startled his parents at supper that evening by a sudden and seemingly morbid thirst for information about diseases.
"Mother," he queried, between mouthfuls of bread and homemade marmalade, "what's measles and scarlet fever and diphtheria start out like?"
His father chortled with amusement. Mother, after the manner of women, remembered his actions that noon and grew anxious.
"You're not feeling sick, are you, dear?"
He didn't feel exactly well. Could she tell him about any of the foregoing? Perhaps he had one of them.
"Put that marmalade right down, then. It'll upset your stomach. Here, let me look at your tongue!"
He demurred. Jam wouldn't hurt him. There was nothing really wrong, anyway. Only one of the boys at school had gone home with the measles and he was wondering what it was like. Then he subsided into silence.
Late that evening, Mr. Fletcher found the library gas burning and discovered his son sitting beside the desk, his eyes glued to the portly, green-bound Family Doctor. Beside him on a pad were scribbled copious notes. Nor would he even hint, as his father ordered him to bed, what he wanted them for.