"Well, this can't go on another day, and I can't treat her here. She must go. Tell your mother," said the doctor in a decided tone to a little girl of thirteen who stood near.
Mrs. Blazowski threw up her hands with voluble protestation. "She says they will not go. She put grease on and make them all right."
"Grease!" exclaimed the doctor. "I should say so, and a good many other things too! Why, the girl's head is alive with them! Heavens above!" said the doctor, turning to Mrs. French, "she's running over with vermin! Let's see the other."
He turned to a girl of five, whose head and face were even more seriously affected with the dread disease.
"Why, bless my soul! This girl will lose her eyesight! Now look here, these children must go to the hospital, and must go now. Tell your mother what I say."
Again the little girl translated, and again the mother made emphatic reply.
"What does she say?"
"She say she not let them go. She fix them herself. Fix them all right."
"Perhaps we better wait, Doctor," interposed Mrs. French. "I'll talk to her and we'll try another day."
"No," said the doctor, catching up a shawl and wrapping it around the little girl, "she's going with me now. There will be a scrap, and you will have to get in. I'll back you up."