“What did they die of?”
“My father died of consumption, and my sister also.”
Frank said nothing, but his face grew somewhat graver as he heard the bad history. He began to percuss the boy’s chest.
“I can find nothing abnormal there,” he said.
Then he took his stethoscope and listened.
“Say ninety-nine. Now cough. Breathe deeply.”
He went over every inch carefully, but found nothing more than might be due to an attack of bronchitis. But before putting down the stethoscope he applied it again to the apex of the lung, just above the collar-bone.
“Breathe deeply.”
Then very distinctly he heard a slight crackling sound, which the hectic flush on Herbert’s cheeks, the symptoms and the history, had led him to expect. Once more he percussed, more carefully still, and the note was dull. There could be little doubt about the diagnosis.
“You can put on your clothes,” he said, sitting down at his desk to write notes of the case.