The father was a
little shopkeeper, and the young man remembered how pathetically
proud he had been of his son. Could it be, thought George, that
this old man was a victim of syphilis?
But it was the son, and not the father, who was the subject of
the consultation. The old man was speaking in a deeply moved
voice, and he stood so that George could not help hearing what he
said. "Perhaps you can't understand," he said, "just what it
means to us--the hopes we had of that boy! Such a fine fellow he
was, and a good fellow, too, sir! We were so proud of him; we
had bled our veins to keep him in college--and now just see!"
"Don't despair, sir," said the doctor, "we'll try to cure him."
And he added with that same note of sorrow in his voice which
George had heard, "Why did you wait so long before you brought
the boy to me?"
"How was I to know what he had?" cried the other. "He didn't
dare tell me, sir--he was afraid of my scolding him. And in the
meantime the disease was running its course. When he realized
that he had it, he went secretly to one of the quacks, who robbed
him, and didn't cure him. You know how it is, sir."
"Yes, I know," said the doctor.
"Such things ought not to be permitted," cried the old man.
"What is our government about that it allows such things to go
on? Take the conditions there at the college where my poor boy
was ruined. At the very gates of the building these women are
waiting for the lads! Ought they to be permitted to debauch
young boys only fifteen years old? Haven't we got police enough
to prevent a thing like that? Tell me, sir!"
"One would think so," said the doctor, patiently.
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