It's up wi' the bonnets o' McBride and MacRae!
I am,
Indignantly yours, SALLIE.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
Monday.
Dear Dr. MacRae:
I am sending this note by Sadie Kate, as it seems impossible to reach
you by telephone. Is the person who calls herself Mrs. McGur-rk and
hangs up in the middle of a sentence your housekeeper? If she answers
the telephone often, I don't see how your patients have any patience
left.
As you did not come this morning, per agreement, and the painters did
come, I was fain to choose a cheerful corn color to be placed upon the
walls of your new laboratory room. I trust there is nothing unhygienic
about corn color.
Also, if you can spare a moment this afternoon, kindly motor yourself
to Dr. Brice's on Water Street and look at the dentist's chair and
appurtenances which are to be had at half-price. If all of the pleasant
paraphernalia of his profession were here,--in a corner of your
laboratory,--Dr. Brice could finish his 111 new patients with much more
despatch than if we had to transport them separately to Water Street.
Don't you think that's a useful idea? It came to me in the middle of
the night, but as I never happened to buy a dentist's chair before, I'd
appreciate some professional advice. Yours truly,
S. McBRIDE.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
March 1.
Dear Judy:
Do stop sending me telegrams!
Of course I know that you want to know everything that is happening, and
I would send a daily bulletin, but I truly don't find a minute. I am so
tired when night comes that if it weren't for Jane's strict discipline,
I should go to bed with my clothes on.
Later, when we slip a little more into routine, and I can be sure that
my assistants are all running off their respective jobs, I shall be the
regularest correspondent you ever had.
It was five days ago, wasn't it, that I wrote? Things have been
happening in those five days. The MacRae and I have mapped out a plan of
campaign, and are stirring up this place to its sluggish depths. I like
him less and less, but we have declared a sort of working truce. And the
man IS a worker. I always thought I had sufficient energy myself, but
when an improvement is to be introduced, I toil along panting in his
wake. He is as stubborn and tenacious and bull-doggish as a Scotchman
can be, but he does understand babies; that is, he understands their
physiological aspects. He hasn't any more feeling for them personally
than for so many frogs that he might happen to be dissecting.