He has the mind of a race horse. He runs at night to
libraries until I should think he'd go insane. And his body can't stand it,
he's breaking down--though whenever I ask him how he feels, he always says,
'Fine, thank you.'" Here Roger turned to Allan. "I wish you'd take the
boy," he said, "to the finest specialist in town, and see what can be done
for his spine. I'll pay any price."
"There won't be any price," said Allan, "but I'll see to it at once."
He had John examined the same week.
"Well?" asked Roger when next they met.
"Well," said Baird, "it isn't good news."
"You mean he's hopeless?" Allan nodded:
"It's Pott's disease, and it's gone too far. John is eighteen. He may live
to be thirty."
"But I tell you, Baird, I'll do anything!"
"There's almost nothing you can do. If he had been taken when he was a
baby, he might have been cured and given a chance. But the same mother who
dropped him then, when she was full of liquor, just went to the druggist on
her block, and after listening to his advice she bought some patent
medicine, a steel jacket and some crutches, and thought she'd done her
duty."
"But there must be something we can do!" retorted Roger angrily.
"Yes," said Baird, "we can make him a little more comfortable. And
meanwhile we can help Deborah here to get hold of other boys like John and
give 'em a chance before it's too late--keep them from being crippled for
life because their mothers were too blind and ignorant to act in time.
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