“Yes; and Irving Wingate has since come down with scarlet fever,” added Mrs. Clyde.
“Enough said!” asserted the Health Master. “I can’t think of any better way to disseminate germs than an apple-bobbing contest. It beats even kissing games. Well, the mischief is done.”
“Then they’ll all have it,” said Mrs. Clyde miserably.
“Oh, let’s hope not. Nothing is more mysterious than the way contagion hits one and misses others. I should say there was at least an even chance of the rest escaping. But we must regard them as suspects, and report the house for quarantine.”
“Ugh!” shuddered Mrs. Clyde. “I hate that word. And think of my husband coming home to find a flaming red placard on the house!”
“We’ll give him warning before he leaves the factory. And now for our campaign. Item 1: a trained nurse. Item 2: a gas-range.”
“The trained nurse, certainly,” agreed Mrs. Clyde. “But why the gas-range? Isn’t Charley’s room warm enough?”
“Quite. The stove isn’t for warmth; it’s for safety. I’m going to establish a line of fire beyond which no contagion can pass. We’ll put the stove in the hall, and keep on it a tin boiler full of water just at the simmering point. Everything which Charley has used or touched must go into that or other boiling water as soon as it leaves the room: the plates he eats from, the utensils he uses; his handkerchiefs, night-clothes, towels—everything.”
“That will be a hard regimen to keep up,” Mrs. Clyde objected.
“Martial law,” said the Health Master positively. “From the moment the red placard goes up, we’re in a state of siege, and I’m in command. The rules of the camp will be simple but strict. Whoever violates any of them will be liable to imprisonment in the strictest quarantine. We’ll have a household conference to-night and go over the whole matter. Now I’m going to telephone the Health Department and ask Dr. Merritt to come up and quarantine us officially.”