“Don’t you worry, little girl,” said the doctor cheerfully, “practice is looking up.  My name is getting into the papers.  A few more foreign weddings with attendant killings and I shall be famous.”

At the Blazowski shack Mrs. French was waiting the doctor, and in despair.  A crowd of children appeared to fill the shack and overflow through the door into the sunny space outside, on the sheltered side of the house.

The doctor made his way through them and passed into the evil-smelling, filthy room.  For Mrs. Blazowski found it a task beyond her ability to perform the domestic duties attaching to the care of seven children and a like number of boarders in her single room.  Mrs. French was seated on a stool with a little child of three years upon her knee.

“Doctor, don’t you think that these children ought to go to the hospital to-day?” she said, as the doctor entered.

“Why, sure thing; they must go.  Let’s look at them.”

He tried to take the little child from Mrs. French’s knee, but the little one vehemently objected.

“Well, let’s look at you, anyway,” said the doctor, proceeding to unwind some filthy rags from the little one’s head.  “Great Scott!” he exclaimed in a low voice, “this is truly awful!”

The hair was matted with festering scabs.  The ears, the eyes, the fingers were full of running sores.

“I had no idea this thing had gone so far,” he said in a horrified voice.

“What is it?” said Mrs. French.  “Is it—­”

“No, not itch.  It is the industrious and persevering eczema pusculosum, known to the laity as salt rheum of the domestic variety.”

“It has certainly got worse this last week,” said Mrs. French.

“Well, this can’t go on another day, and I can’t treat her here.  She must go.  Tell your mother,” said the doctor in a decided tone to a little girl of thirteen who stood near.

Mrs. Blazowski threw up her hands with voluble protestation.  “She says they will not go.  She put grease on and make them all right.”

“Grease!” exclaimed the doctor.  “I should say so, and a good many other things too!  Why, the girl’s head is alive with them!  Heavens above!” said the doctor, turning to Mrs. French, “she’s running over with vermin!  Let’s see the other.”

He turned to a girl of five, whose head and face were even more seriously affected with the dread disease.

“Why, bless my soul!  This girl will lose her eyesight!  Now look here, these children must go to the hospital, and must go now.  Tell your mother what I say.”

Again the little girl translated, and again the mother made emphatic reply.

“What does she say?”

“She say she not let them go.  She fix them herself.  Fix them all right.”

“Perhaps we better wait, Doctor,” interposed Mrs. French.  “I’ll talk to her and we’ll try another day.”

“No,” said the doctor, catching up a shawl and wrapping it around the little girl, “she’s going with me now.  There will be a scrap, and you will have to get in.  I’ll back you up.”