“But what of Charley?” exclaimed Mrs. Clyde. “You’re not going to keep me away from my boy?”
“Not when you put it in that way and use that tone,” smiled Dr. Strong. “I probably couldn’t if I tried. Under official quarantine rules you’ll have to give up going anywhere outside the house. Under our local martial law you’re not to touch Charley or anything that he handles, nor to kiss the other children. And you’re to wash your hands every time you come out of the sick-room, though it’s only to step beyond the door.”
“It is an order,” said the mother gravely. “Will he be very ill, do you think?”
“So far the cases have been mild. His is likely to be, too. But it’s the most difficult kind of case to handle.”
“I don’t see that at all,” said Mrs. Sharpless.
“You will, when he becomes convalescent. Then is when my troubles will begin. For the present the bulk of the work inside the sick-room will be upon the trained nurse and Mrs. Clyde. I’ll have my troubles outside, watching the rest of the family.”
Not since Dr. Strong came to the Clydes’ as guardian of their health had there been an emergency meeting called of the Household Protective Association, as the Health Master termed the organization which he had formed (mainly for educative purposes) within the family. That evening he addressed a full session, including the servants, holding up before them the red placard which the Health Department had sent, and informing them of the quarantine.
“No school?” inquired the practical-minded Bobs, “Hooray!”
“No school for you children, until further notice,” confirmed the physician.
“And no business for me, I suppose,” said Mr. Clyde, frowning.