They make the men work, and the women and the children—­make ’em all work as the Pharaohs never sweated the wretches they set at building the pyramids.  The nearer the structure gets toward completion, the worse the driving and the madder the haste.  Some day the world’ll be worth living in—­probably just about the time it’s going to drop into the sun.  Meanwhile, it’s a hell of a place.  We’re a race of slaves, toiling for the benefit of the race of gods that’ll some day be born into a habitable world and live happily ever afterwards.  Science will give them happiness—­and immortality, if they lose the taste for the adventure into the Beyond.”

Arthur’s brain heard clearly enough to remember afterwards; but Schulze’s voice seemed to be coming through a thick wall.  When they reached the Ranger house, Schulze had to lift him from the buggy and support his weight and guide his staggering steps.  Out ran Mrs. Ranger, with the terror in her eyes.

“Don’t lose your head, ma’am,” said Schulze.  “It’s only a cut finger.  The young fool forgot he was steering a machine, and had a sharp but slight reminder.”

Schulze was heavily down on the “interesting-invalid” habit.  He held that the world’s supply of sympathy was so small that there wasn’t enough to provide encouragement for those working hard and well; that those who fell into the traps of illness set in folly by themselves should get, at most, toleration in the misfortunes in which others were compelled to share.  “The world discourages strength and encourages weakness,” he used to declaim.  “That injustice and cruelty must be reversed!”

“Doctor Schulze is right,” Arthur was saying to his mother, with an attempt at a smile.  But he was glad of the softness and ease of the big divan in the back parlor, of the sense of hovering and protecting love he got from his mother’s and Adelaide’s anxious faces.  Sorer than the really trifling wound was the deep cut into his vanity.  How his fellow-workmen were pitying him!—­a poor blockhead of a bungler who had thus brought to a pitiful climax his failure to learn a simple trade.  And how the whole town would talk and laugh!  “Hiram Ranger, he begat a fool!”

Schulze, with proper equipment, redressed and rebandaged the wound, and left, after cautioning the young man not to move the sick arm.  “You’ll be all right to strum the guitar and sport a diamond ring in a fortnight at the outside,” said he.  At the door he lectured Adelaide:  “For God’s sake, Miss Ranger, don’t let his mother coddle him.  He’s got the makings of a man like his father—­not as big, perhaps, but still a lot of a man.  Give him a chance!  Give him a chance!  If this had happened in a football game or a fox-hunt, nobody would have thought anything of it.  But just because it was done at useful work, you’ve got yourself all fixed to make a fearful to-do.”

How absurdly does practice limp along, far behind firm-striding theory!  Schulze came twice that day, looked in twice the next day, and fussed like a disturbed setting-hen when his patient forestalled the next day’s visit by appearing at his office for treatment.  “I want to see if I can’t heal that cut without a scar,” was his explanation—­but it was a mere excuse.