“And now?” So sharp came the question that Mr. Clyde glanced at the speaker, not without apprehension.
“Nothing left of it that I can see.”
“What had you in mind?” asked Mr. Clyde of the doctor, curiously.
“Speaking technically, anterior poliomyelitis.” Grandma Sharpless laughed comfortably. “I’ve noticed that a very long name like that usually means a sore toe or a pimple behind your ear. It’s the short names that bring the undertaker.”
“Shrewdly said, but exception noted,” said Dr. Strong.
“As for Bobs, I remember two cases I saw at Clinton years ago, like that attack of his. One of ‘em never walked afterward, and the other has a shriveled hand to this day.”
Dr. Strong nodded. “To come down nearer to English, that’s infantile paralysis, one of the mysteries of medicine. I’ll tell you some things about it some day. Your Bobs had a narrow escape.”
“You’re sure it is an escape?” asked the father anxiously.
“If Mrs. Sharpless is satisfied that there’s no trace left, I am.”
“Come in to breakfast,” said Mrs. Clyde, entering the room with a child attached to either hand. She was a tall, fair woman with the charm of fresh coloring and regular features, large, intelligent eyes, and a somewhat restless vigor and vitality. That her husband and children adored her was obvious. One had to look twice to perceive that she was over thirty; and even a careful estimate did not suggest her real age of thirty-seven.