"Yes, he sent for me, about nine o'clock." Doctor Keltridge, sitting in
the window seat beside Opdyke, swung his heels like a boy, in gleeful
recollection. "Of course, it was _sotto voce_, as it were, for he's the
king pin of the Christian Science row, and it never would do to let it
get about. When I got there, I found him all doubled up with asthma,
wheezing like a grampus. 'Damn it, man,' he said, as soon as he caught
a glimpse of me; 'I've been praying since six o'clock, and I'm getting
worse, every minute! Give me something, quick, or I shall die.'"
And then the doctor went off into a roar of laughter over this latest
victory of medicine.
"He came out all right?"
"Of course. People don't die of asthma; at least, not in his stage.
They only get beastly uncomfortable. I had him asleep, within an hour."
"Yes, and next time?" Opdyke inquired.
"He'll go through the same rigmarole again. I suppose, when the fit
comes on, he will telephone to headquarters for some sort of absent
treatment. What charms me is the way those fellows seem to turn on the
same tap, whatever the disease. A child down in Oak Street fell into
boiling water, only just the other day. The neighbours heard him
shrieking, and finally they telephoned to me. When I went into the
house, the poor little sinner was writhing all over the bed and howling
with the pain. Beside the bed, knitting a purple tippet, sat a healer,
giving treatment, while she worked."
"Fact?"
"I can produce affidavits," Doctor Keltridge answered grimly. "What's
more, I am going to do it soon. They can make fools of themselves, if
they choose--only the dear Lord got ahead of them, and did it first;
but, while I live to fight, they shall not butcher their little
babies."