ing him
contemptuously, realized in him his own fallacious judgment, and hated
Akers for proving him wrong.

Outside the building Doyle drew the Russian aside, and spoke to him.
Ross started, then grinned.

"You're wrong," he said. "He won't try it. But of course he may, and
we'll see that he doesn't get away with it."

From that time on Louis Akers was under espionage.

CHAPTER XLVI

DOCTOR Smalley was by way of achieving a practice. During his morning
and evening office hours he had less and less time to read the papers
and the current magazines in his little back office, or to compare the
month's earnings, visit by visit, with the same month of the previous
year.

He took to making his hospital rounds early in the morning, rather to
the outrage of various head nurses, who did not like the staff to come
a-visiting until every counterpane was drawn stiff and smooth, every
bed corner a geometrical angle, every patient washed and combed and
temperatured, and in the exact center of the bed.

Interns were different. They were like husbands. They came and went,
seeing things at their worst as well as at their best, but mostly at
their worst. Like husbands, too, they developed a sort of philosophy as
to the early morning, and would only make occasional remarks, such as:

"Cyclone struck you this morning, or anything?"

Doctor Smalley, being a bachelor, was entirely blind to the early
morning deficiencies of his wards. Besides, he was young and had had a
cold shower and two eggs and various other things, and he saw the
world at eight A.M. as a good place. He would get into his little car,
whistling, and driving through the market square he would sometimes
stop and buy a bag of apples for the children's ward, or a bunch of
fall flowers. Thus armed, it was impossible for the most austere of head
nurses to hate him.

"We're not straightened up yet, doctor," they would say.

"Looks all right to me," he would reply cheerfully, and cast an eager
eye over the ward. To him they were all his children, large and small,
and if he did not exactly carry healing in his wings, having no wings,
he brought them courage and a breath of fresh morning air, slightly
tinged with bay rum, and the feeling that this was a new day. A new
page, on which to write such wonderful things (in the order book) as:
"Jennie may get up this afternoon." Or: "Lizzie Smith, small piece of
beef steak."

On the morning after the election Doctor