“Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers.”
“Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?”
“Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many—”
“What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!”
“Yes,” replied Dick. “But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals, and all that sort of thing.”
“So you've got it, too,” said Margaret, with a smile.
“Got what?”
“Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere.”
“Is that so?” replied Dick, laughing. “Well, there are some who have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him.”
“And yet they say he is—”