“Well, it sent me into dreamland over again,” Billy sighed. “An' when I come to, here was Bud an' Anson an' Jackson dousin' me at a water trough. An' then we dodged a reporter an' all come home together.”
Bud Strothers held up his fist and indicated freshly abraded skin.
“The reporter-guy just insisted on samplin' it,” he said. Then, to Billy: “That's why I cut around Ninth an' caught up with you down on Sixth.”
A few minutes later Doctor Hentley arrived, and drove the men from the rooms. They waited till he had finished, to assure themselves of Billy's well being, and then departed. In the kitchen Doctor Hentley washed his hands and gave Saxon final instructions. As he dried himself he sniffed the air and looked toward the stove where a pot was simmering.
“Clams,” he said. “Where did you buy them?”
“I didn't buy them,” replied Saxon. “I dug them myself.”
“Not in the marsh?” he asked with quickened interest.
“Yes.”
“Throw them away. Throw them out. They're death and corruption. Typhoid—I've got three cases now, all traced to the clams and the marsh.”
When he had gone, Saxon obeyed. Still another mark against Oakland, she reflected—Oakland, the man-trap, that poisoned those it could not starve.