“Simply because you’ve been steeped in the fatalism which surrounds cancer. That fatalism, which is so hard to combat, is what keeps women from the saving hope of the knife. ‘I’ve got to die anyway,’ they say, ‘and I’m not going to be carved up before I die.’ And so they throw away what chance they have. Oh, if only I had control of the newspapers of this city for one day a week or a month,—just for a half-column editorial,—what a saving of life I could effect! A little simple advice in straight-out terms would teach the people of this community to avoid poor Mrs. Westerly’s fate.”
“And drive ‘em all into the hands of the doctors,” said Mrs. Sharpless shrewdly. “A fine fattening of fees for your trade, young man.”
“Do you think so? Do you think that cancer ever fails to come to the physician at last? And do you think the fee is less because the surgeon has to do twice the amount of work with a hundredth of the hope of success?”
“No-o-o,” admitted the old lady, with some hesitancy; “I didn’t think of it in that light.”
“Few do. Oh, for the chance to teach people to think straight about this! Publicity is what we need so bitterly, and the only publicity goes to the quacks who pay for it, because the local newspapers don’t want to write about ‘unpleasant topics,’ forsooth!”
“Do you want a chance for some publicity in a small way?” asked Mrs. Clyde.
“Do I! Show me the chance.”
“The Mothers’ Association meets here this afternoon. We haven’t much business on hand. Come in and talk to us for an hour.”
“Fine!” said the Health Master, with enthusiasm. “Half of that time will do me. How many will be there?”
“About sixty.”