“I’m trying to map out for you, a rich man, as good treatment as a very poor man would have in a hospital—that is, the best technical advice for every hygienic emergency that may arise—plus some few extensions of my own. Now we come to what is likely to prove the stumbling-block.”
“Set it up.”
“If I’m to take this job, I must be the autocrat, in so far as my own department is concerned. As you know, a city health official’s powers are arbitrary. He can burn your house down; he can imprison you; he can establish a military régime; he can override or undo the laws which control the ordinary procedure of life. Hygienic law, like martial law, supersedes rights in crises. You are asking me to act as health officer of your house. If I’m to do my work, I must have full sway, and I shall expect you to see that every member of your household obeys my orders—except,” he added, with a twinkle, “Grandma Sharpless. I expect she’s too old to take orders from any one. Diplomacy must be my agent with her.”
Mr. Clyde pondered. “That’s a pretty wide authority you’re asking.”
“Yes, but I shall use it only in extreme cases. I shall deal extensively in advice and suggestion, which you may take or leave as you choose. But an order will mean a life or death matter.”
“Agreed. Now, as to terms—”
“Let the terms go, until we see how much I can save you. Meantime, don’t overestimate what I undertake to do. Suppose you just run through the roster of what you consider the danger points, and I’ll tell you how far I can promise anything.”
“First, then, tuberculosis, of course.”
“Practical immunity from that, as long as you maintain your present standards of life.”
“Typhoid fever. As I told you, we’ve had one visitation.”