It was a curious and impressive document—­a frank, candid record in black and white of the history of a human soul.  To Jack it had a sacred aspect like the story of the trials of Job.

“I begin to understand how you have built up this wonderful structure we call Franklin,” he said.

“Oh, it is but a poor and shaky thing at best, likely to tumble in a high wind—­but some work has gone into it,” said the old gentleman.  “You see these white pages are rather spotted, but when I look over the history of my spirit, as I do now and then, I observe that the pages are slowly getting cleaner.  There is not so much ink on them as there used to be.  You see I was once a free thinker.  I had no gods to bother me, and my friends were of the same stripe.  In time I discovered that they were a lot of scamps and that I was little better.  I found myself in the wrong road and immediately faced about.  Then I began keeping these tables.  They have been a help to me.”

This reminded Jack of the evil words of the melancholy Mr. Pinhorn which had been so promptly rebuked by his friend John Adams on the ride to Philadelphia.  The young man made a copy of one of the tables and was saying good night to his venerable friend when the latter remarked: 

“I shall go to Sir John Pringle’s in the morning for advice.  He is a noted physician.  My man will be having a day off.  Could you go with me at ten?”

“Gladly,” said Jack.

“Then I shall pick you up at your lodgings.  You will see your rival at Pringle’s.  He is at home on leave and has been going to Sir John’s office every Tuesday morning at ten-thirty with his father.  General Clarke, a gruff, gouty old hero of the French and Indian wars and an aggressive Tory.  He is forever tossing and goring the Whigs.  It may be the only chance you will have to see that rival of yours.  He is a handsome lad.”

Doctor Franklin, with his crutch beside him in the cab, called for his young friend at the hour appointed.

“I go to his office when I have need of his advice,” said the Doctor.  “If ever he came to me, the wretch would charge me two guineas.  We have much argument over the processes of life in the human body, of which I have gained some little knowledge.  Often he flatters me by seeking my counsel in difficult cases.”

The office of the Doctor Baronet was on the first floor of a large building in Gough Square, Fleet Street.  A number of gentlemen sat in comfortable chairs in a large waiting room.

“Sir John will see you in a moment, sir,” an attendant said to Doctor Franklin as they entered.  The moment was a very long one.

“In London there are many people who disagree with the clock,” Franklin laughed.  “In this office, even the moments have the gout.  They limp along with slow feet.”

It was a gloomy room.  The chairs, lounges and tables had a venerable look like that of the men who came there with warped legs and old mahogany faces.  The red rugs and hangings suggested “the effect of old port on the human countenance, being of a hue like unto that of many cheeks and noses in the waiting company,” as the young man wrote.  The door to the private room of the great physician creaked on its hinges with a kind of groan when he came out accompanied by a limping patient.