“Not numerically. It is beaten out by the death record of intestinal poisoning in the very young. Your flock has run the gamut and come through with undiminished vitality. Two of them, however, are running life’s race under a handicap”—the father’s eyelids went up—“which I’ll take up shortly, when I’ve fully determined the causes. They can be repaired, one readily, the other in time. Finally, I hope to be able to teach them the gospel of the sound, clean mind in the sound, clean body. In a desert I might guarantee immunity from most of the ills that flesh is heir to. Amid the complexities of our civilization, disease and death are largely social; there is no telling from what friend the poison may come. No man can safeguard his house. The most he can hope for is a measure of protection. I can offer you nothing more than that, under our compact.”
“That is enough,” returned Mr. Clyde. He took from his inner pocket a folded paper, which he handed over to the young man. “There’s the contract, duly signed. Come in, Grandma.”
Mrs. Sharpless, entering the door, stopped on seeing the two men.
“Business, Tom?” she asked.
“Business that you’re interested in,” said her son-in-law, and briefly outlined his plan.
Grandma Sharpless shook a wise gray head. “I’m glad you’re going to stay, young man,” said she. “You need looking after. But as for the scheme, I don’t hold much with these new-fangled notions.”
“Perhaps it isn’t as new-fangled as you suppose,” returned the head of the household. “I’ve just given Dr. Strong a contract, and where do you suppose I got it?”
“That lawyer man of yours, probably,” said Mrs. Sharpless.
“Well, he looked it over and made sure it was sound in American law. But essentially it’s a copy of a medical contract in force before Hippocrates ever rolled a pill. It’s the old logical Chinese form, whereby the doctor’s duty is prescribed as warding off sickness, not curing it. Is that old-fashioned enough for you, grandma?”
“Chinese! My land!” said the old lady. “What do they know about sickness?”