Mr. Clyde rubbed his chin again. “Hum,” he remarked. “Well! the second gift of advice?”
“That you either respect the law yourself or resign the presidency of the Public Health League.” A distinct spot of red appeared on each of the elder man’s smooth cheeks. “Are you trying to provoke me to a quarrel?” he asked brusquely.
Then his expression mollified. “Or are you testing me?”
“Neither. I’m giving you my best and most honest advice. If you expect me to do as your substitute physician did, to guard your household in violation of the law which tries to protect the whole public equally, you’ve got the wrong man, and your boasted judgment has gone askew,” was the steady reply.
Mr. Clyde turned and left the room. When he returned his hand was outstretched.
“I’ve taken three swallows of cold air, and sent for a cab,” he said. “Shake hands. I think you and I will be friends. Only—train me a little gently at the outset. You’ll come with me?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Strong, and the two men shook hands.
During the drive Mr. Clyde expounded the virtues and characteristics of his native city to his new acquaintance, who was an excellent listener. Long afterward he found Dr. Strong acting on remembered and shrewdly analyzed information given in that first long talk. When they reached the big, rambling, many-windowed house which afforded the growing Clyde family opportunity to grow, the head of the household took his guest to an apartment in one of the wings.
“These two rooms are yours,” he said. “I hope you’ll be like Coleridge who came to visit with one satchel and stayed five years.”
“That remains to be seen to-morrow,” said Dr. Strong. “By the way, as I usually read myself to sleep, you might leave me some of your local health reports. Thus I can be looking the ground over.”