Me?  I’m not a drooler.  I’m the assistant, I don’t know what Miss Jones or Miss Kelsey could do without me.  There are fifty-five low-grade droolers in this ward, and how could they ever all be fed if I wasn’t around?  I like to feed droolers.  They don’t make trouble.  They can’t.  Something’s wrong with most of their legs and arms, and they can’t talk.  They’re very low-grade.  I can walk, and talk, and do things.  You must be careful with the droolers and not feed them too fast.  Then they choke.  Miss Jones says I’m an expert.  When a new nurse comes I show her how to do it.  It’s funny watching a new nurse try to feed them.  She goes at it so slow and careful that supper time would be around before she finished shoving down their breakfast.  Then I show her, because I’m an expert.  Dr. Dalrymple says I am, and he ought to know.  A drooler can eat twice as fast if you know how to make him.

My name’s Tom.  I’m twenty-eight years old.  Everybody knows me in the institution.  This is an institution, you know.  It belongs to the State of California and is run by politics.  I know.  I’ve been here a long time.  Everybody trusts me.  I run errands all over the place, when I’m not busy with the droolers.  I like droolers.  It makes me think how lucky I am that I ain’t a drooler.

I like it here in the Home.  I don’t like the outside.  I know.  I’ve been around a bit, and run away, and adopted.  Me for the Home, and for the drooling ward best of all.  I don’t look like a drooler, do I?  You can tell the difference soon as you look at me.  I’m an assistant, expert assistant.  That’s going some for a feeb.  Feeb?  Oh, that’s feeble-minded.  I thought you knew.  We’re all feebs in here.

But I’m a high-grade feeb.  Dr. Dalrymple says I’m too smart to be in the Home, but I never let on.  It’s a pretty good place.  And I don’t throw fits like lots of the feebs.  You see that house up there through the trees.  The high-grade epilecs all live in it by themselves.  They’re stuck up because they ain’t just ordinary feebs.  They call it the club house, and they say they’re just as good as anybody outside, only they’re sick.  I don’t like them much.  They laugh at me, when they ain’t busy throwing fits.  But I don’t care.  I never have to be scared about falling down and busting my head.  Sometimes they run around in circles trying to find a place to sit down quick, only they don’t.  Low-grade epilecs are disgusting, and high-grade epilecs put on airs.  I’m glad I ain’t an epilec.  There ain’t anything to them.  They just talk big, that’s all.

Miss Kelsey says I talk too much.  But I talk sense, and that’s more than the other feebs do.  Dr. Dalrymple says I have the gift of language.  I know it.  You ought to hear me talk when I’m by myself, or when I’ve got a drooler to listen.  Sometimes I think I’d like to be a politician, only it’s too much trouble.  They’re all great talkers; that’s how they hold their jobs.