“But you can’t be sure!” persisted Mrs. Clyde. “How can you tell without the rash?”
“Not in any way that I could put into words,” said her mother. “But there’s something in the look of the throat and something about the eyes and skin—Well, I can’t describe it, but I know it as I know my own name.”
“There speaks the born diagnostician,” observed the Health Master. “I’m afraid the verdict must stand.”
“Then—then,” faltered Mrs. Clyde, “we must act at once. I’ll call up my husband at the factory.”
“What for?” inquired Dr. Strong innocently. “Why, to let him know, of course.”
“Don’t. When I undertook to act as Chinese-plan physician to the Clyde household, I was not only to guard the family against illness as well as I could, but also to save them worry. This is Saturday. Mr. Clyde has had a hard, trying week in the factory. Why break up his day?”
Mrs. Clyde drew a long breath and her face lightened. “Then it isn’t a serious case?”
“Scarlet fever is always serious. Any disease which thoroughly poisons the system is. But there’s no immediate danger; and there shouldn’t be much danger at any time to a sturdy youngster like Charley, if he’s well looked after.”
“But the other children!” Mrs. Clyde turned to Mrs. Sharpless. “Where can we send them, mother?”
“Nowhere.” It was the doctor who answered.