“I’m not!” I snapped.

“Well, you’re wall-eyed with fright,” he insisted.  “Of course, you’re the best judge of your own knees, but after last night—­Had any lunch?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly,” he said.  “You make me think of the little boy who dug post-holes in the daytime and took in washings at night to support the family.  Sit down.”

I sat.

“Inhale and exhale slowly four times, and then swallow the lump in your throat....  Gone?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  He was fumbling in his pocket and he brought out a napkin.  When he opened it there was a sandwich, a piece of cheese and a banana.

“What do you think of that?” he asked, watching me anxiously.  “Looks pretty good?”

“Fine,” I said, hating to disappoint him, although I never eat sardines, and bananas give me indigestion, “I’m hungry enough to eat a raw Italian.”

“Then fall to,” he directed, and with a flourish he drew a bottle of ginger ale from his pocket.

“How’s this?” he demanded, holding it up.  “Cheers but doesn’t inebriate; not a headache in a barrel; ginger ale to the gingery!  ’A quart of ale is a dish for a king,’” he said, holding up a glass.  “That’s Shakespeare, Miss Minnie.”

I was a good bit more cheerful when I’d choked down the sandwich, especially when he assured me the water was all right—­“a little high, as you might say, but not poisonous.  Lord, I wish you could have seen them staggering into my office!”

“I saw enough,” I said with a shiver.

“That German, von Inwald,” he went on, “he’s the limit.  He accused us of poisoning him for reasons of state!”

“Where are they now?”

“My dear girl,” he answered, putting down his glass, “what has been pounded into me ever since I struck the place?  The baths!  I prescribe ’em all day and dream ’em all night.  Where are the poisonees now?  They are steaming, stewing, exuding in the hot rooms of the bath department—­all of them, every one of them!  In the hold and the hatches down!”

He picked up the pail and went down the steps to the spring.

“After all,” he said, “it won’t hurt to take out a little of this and pour it on the ground.  It ought to be good fertilizer.”  He stooped.  “‘Come, gentle spring, ethereal mildness, come,’” he quoted, and dipped in the pail.

Just then somebody fell against the door and stumbled into the room.  It was Tillie, as white as milk, and breathing in gasps.

“Quick!” she screeched, “Minnie, quick!”

“What is it?” I asked, jumping up.  She’d fallen back against the door-frame and stood with her hand clutching her heart.

“That dev—­devil—­Mike!” she panted.  “He has turned on the steam in the men’s baths and gone—­gone away!”

“With people in the bath?” Doctor Barnes asked, slamming down the pail.

Tillie nodded.

“Then why in creation don’t they get out of the baths until we can shut off the steam?” I demanded, grabbing up my shawl.  But Tillie shook her head in despair.