“No, it won’t add to the attractiveness of the neighborhood, perhaps,” said Mrs. Clyde thoughtfully. “But how convenient it will be!”
Mr. Clyde had come home with the news that a drug-store was to be opened shortly on the adjacent corner. Shifting his position to dodge a foliage-piercing shaft of sunlight—they were all sitting out on the shady lawn, in the cool of a September afternoon—Dr. Strong shook his head.
“Too convenient, altogether,” he observed.
“How’s that?” queried Mr. Clyde. “A drugstore is like a gun in Texas: you may not need it often, but when you do need it, you need it like blazes.”
“True enough. But most people over-patronize the drug-store.”
“Not this family; at least, since our house-doctor came to keep us well on the Chinese plan,” said Mrs. Clyde gracefully.
But Dr. Strong only looked rueful. “Your Chinese doctor has to plead guilty to negligence of what has been going on under his very nose.”
“Oh, not more trouble!” pleaded Mrs. Clyde. She had come through the dreaded ordeal of little Betty’s operation for adenoids—which had proved to be, after all, so slight and comparatively painless—with a greatly augmented respect for and trust in Dr. Strong; but her nerves still quivered.
“Nothing to trouble you,” the doctor assured her, “but enough to make me feel guilty—and stupid. Have you noticed any change in Manny, lately?”
“Manny” was fourteen-year-old Maynard Clyde, the oldest of the children; a high school lad, tall, lathy, athletic, and good-tempered.