skinny, sort of like a mosquito. I guess that's why. I don't know what his real name is. He used to be a runner; a jim-dandy, too, they say. He's trainer at the Y. M. C. A. I guess he's considered pretty good. And very careful, sir." Perry added that as a happy afterthought.
The Doctor smiled. "I guess we ought to make a diplomat out of you, son, instead of a doctor."
"I don't think I'll be a doctor, dad."
"You don't? I thought you did."
"I used to, but I—I've sort of changed my mind."
"Diplomats do that, too, I believe. Well, I dare say you're right about it. It doesn't look as if I'd have much of a practice to hand over to you, anyway. It's getting so nowadays about every second case is a charity case. About all you get is gratitude, and not always that. Here's your mother now. Mother, this boy wants to go in for athletics, he tells me. Wants to run races and capture silver mugs. Or maybe they're pewter. What do you say to it?"
"Gracious, what for?" ejaculated Mrs. Hull.
Perry stated his case again while his mother took the green tobacco jar from the mantel and placed it within the Doctor's reach, plumped up a pillow on the couch, picked a thread from the worn red carpet and finally, with a little sigh, seated herself
in the small walnut rocker that was her especial
36
