He rose and pushed his chair back.
“Wait a moment,” said the other. “Sit down. I have something that may be of importance to suggest to you. It occurs to me that Worthington would be the better for having a man with your ideas as a citizen. Now, supposing the Public Health League should offer you—”
“I am not at present in medical practice,” broke in the other.
“Even at that, I was thinking that you would be of use as an advisory physician and scientific lookout.”
For a moment, the other’s face brightened, an indication which Mr. Clyde was quick to note. But instantly the expression of eagerness died out.
“Ten hours a day?” said Dr. Strong. “It couldn’t be done properly in less time. And I’m a mere nervous wreck, bound for the scrap-heap.”
“Would you mind,” said Mr. Clyde very gently, “telling me what’s wrong? I’m not asking without a purpose.”
Dr. Strong held out his long arms before him. “I’m a surgeon without a right hand, and a bacteriologist without a left.” The sinewy and pale hands shook a little. “Neuritis,” he continued. “One of the diseases of which we doctors have the most fear and the least knowledge.”
“And with the loss of your occupation, general nervous collapse?” asked Mr. Clyde. Being himself a worker who put his heart into his work, he could guess the sterile hopelessness of spirit of the man banned from a chosen activity.
Dr. Strong nodded. “I may still be fit for the lecture platform as a dispenser of other men’s knowledge. Or perhaps I’ll end up as medical watchdog to some rich man who can afford that kind of pet. Pleasing prospect, isn’t it, for a man who once thought himself of use in the world?”