“It is—it is,” said the lady. “Let us trust this young man, General Witherington. We shall at least give our darlings the comforts of the fresh air and cold water, for which they are pining.”
But the General remained undecided. “Your reasoning,” he said to Hartley, “seems plausible; but still it is only hypothesis. What can you show to support your theory, in opposition to the general practice?”
“My own observation,” replied the young man. “Here is a memorandum-book of medical cases which I have witnessed. It contains twenty cases of small-pox, of which eighteen were recoveries.”
“And the two others?” said the General.
“Terminated fatally,” replied Hartley; “we can as yet but partially disarm this scourge of the human race.”
“Young man,” continued the General, “were I to say that a thousand gold mohrs were yours in case my children live under your treatment, what have you to peril in exchange?”
“My reputation,” answered Hartley, firmly.
“And you could warrant on your reputation the recovery of your patients?”
“God forbid I should be presumptuous! But I think I could warrant my using those means, which, with God's blessing, afford the fairest chance of a favourable result.”
“Enough—you are modest and sensible, as well as bold, and I will trust you.”