“I—­I’m not a very happy Esme, Uncle Guardy.  If I don’t have something to do—­something real—­I’ll—­I’ll c-c-cry and get my pretty nose all red.”

“Quit it!” cried the gruff doctor desperately.  “What d’ye mean by acting that way!  Go on.  Do as you like.  But if Merritt lets anything happen to you—­”

“Nothing will happen, Guardy.  I’ll be careful,” promised the girl.

“Well, I don’t know whatever’s come over you, lately,” retorted her uncle, troubled.

“Neither do I,” said Esme.

She went forth and enlisted Kathleen Pierce, whose energetic and restless mind was ensnared at once by what she regarded as the romantic possibilities of the work, and the two gathered unto themselves half a dozen of the young males of the species, who readily volunteered, partly for love and loyalty to the chieftainesses of their clan, partly out of the blithe and adventurous spirit of youth, and of them formed an automobile corps, for scouting, messenger service, and emergency transportation, as auxiliary to Hale and Merritt; an enterprise which subsequently did yeoman work and taught several of the gilded youth something about the responsibilities of citizenship which they would never have learned in any other school.

Tip O’Farrell was another invaluable aide.  He had one brief encounter, on enlistment, with the health officer.

“You ought to be in jail,” said Dr. Merritt.

“What fer?” demanded O’Farrell.

“Smuggling out bodies without a permit.”

“Ferget it,” advised the politician.  “I tried my way, an’ it wasn’t good enough.  Now I’ll try yours.  You can’t afford to jug me.”

“Why can’t I?”

“I’m too much use to you.”

“So far you’ve been just the other thing.”

“Ain’t I tellin’ you I’m through with that game?  On the level!  Doc, these poor boobs down here know me.  They’ll do as I tell ’em.  Gimme a chance.”

So O’Farrell, making his chance, did his work faithfully and well through the dismal weeks to follow.  It takes all kinds of soldiers to fight an epidemic.

Those two sturdy volunteers, Miss Elliot and Miss Pierce, were driving slowly along the fringe of the Rookeries,—­yes, slowly, notwithstanding that Kathleen Pierce was acting as her own chauffeur,—­having just delivered a consignment of emergency nurses from a neighboring city to Dr. Merritt, when the car slowed down.

“Did you see that?” inquired Miss Pierce, indicating, with a jerk of her head, the general topography off to starboard.

“See what?” inquired her companion.  “I didn’t notice anything except a hokey-pokey seller, adding his mite to the infant mortality of the district.”

“Esme, you talk like nothing human lately!” accused her friend.  “You’re a—­a—­regular health leaflet!  I meant that man going into the corner tenement.  I believe it was Hal Surtaine.”

“Was it?”