particular nostrum here, your own face, your own voice. That’s what they say. Your reporter did enter the inner sanctum of sanctums and asked a lot of questions aloud. That big, bright, melodramatic curtain just wouldn’t open! It couldn’t be pried open. I know; I tried. Velvet over steel mesh, apparently, which could only be parted by electrical impulse, and the boys had shut the juice off. Everybody welcome, except a reporter whose job it is to expose sham, cheapness, brash popularity, vulgarity, and pretense. Why the clergy haven’t denounced it is one of the continuing wonders of the years.”
The colored photographs, however, had been exceedingly handsome, the pictured gardens exquisite, the paths carefully tended, the trees luxurious. No walls or fences guarded the four acres of land, and though the grounds were in the very center of a very populous part of the city, it had never been reported that any vandalism had been committed here, except an attempted robbery a few times, scattered over the years.
The reporter had been particularly annoyed and skeptical, because no donations were solicited and none accepted. He scattered a few dark rumors for public speculation. The governor of the state, after reading that article, had ordered an ‘investigation’, though he knew all about old John’s structure, for he had been there himself one quiet night. But the public ‘clamored’ for the investigation, the governor said apologetically, though he failed to notice that the clamor did not come from the city itself, or even the state, but from towns and villages and cities in far parts of the country. The governor found ‘nothing wrong’. It was a quiet, restful place where you could think, he announced.
A quiet, restful place, thought Eugene Emory as he sat down. Just what I need now! A quiet, restful place, closely resembling a grave. And these are my companions, these dolt-faced women and men, waiting. He saw that one by one, in perfect silence and composure, they rose at the chiming of a bell, opened the oaken door, and disappeared from sight. That was all. My God, what am I doing here? thought Eugene Emory, thinking of what he must tell his wife tomorrow, and his children.
He was forty-nine years old. He had worked all his life, worked while going to high school, worked while going to the university in his home city. He had known nothing but work all his life. He had not resented that until a month ago, or was it two months? Then his resentment had reached fury. He had been so enraged that he had lost two of his easiest cases in court, and the judge, his friend, had looked at him with concern. Three days later he had looked at him sternly and had called him to account with a threat of punishment for contempt of court. Emory, Dean and Hartford had lost face through him, he who had established the firm. Jack Dean, his best friend, had told him that he looked sick and that he was perhaps too tired. “I’ve been feeling like a sick pup,” he had finally admitted. “I suppose I need a vacation. Haven’t had one in eight years; no time. You ought to know that. I’ll talk to Emily tonight, and maybe we can plan something, a cruise or a trip to Europe.”
His wife had been joyful over the idea, but first she had insisted that he see the family physician for a thorough examination. “I hardly know the man,” he had protested. “I only know his bills, and that’s enough! What are you doing here, running a hospital?” But Emily could not be turned aside and, fuming, he had gone to the physician. “I have only an hour to spare,” he told the doctor immediately on entering the examination room. “I’m very busy, you know. How are you?” he added as a belated thought. Had he ever seen this competent youngish man before? He seemed vaguely familiar. At the club? In his house?
“I’m all right. But I don’t think you are,” said the doctor, looking at the ghostly face of his
The colored photographs, however, had been exceedingly handsome, the pictured gardens exquisite, the paths carefully tended, the trees luxurious. No walls or fences guarded the four acres of land, and though the grounds were in the very center of a very populous part of the city, it had never been reported that any vandalism had been committed here, except an attempted robbery a few times, scattered over the years.
The reporter had been particularly annoyed and skeptical, because no donations were solicited and none accepted. He scattered a few dark rumors for public speculation. The governor of the state, after reading that article, had ordered an ‘investigation’, though he knew all about old John’s structure, for he had been there himself one quiet night. But the public ‘clamored’ for the investigation, the governor said apologetically, though he failed to notice that the clamor did not come from the city itself, or even the state, but from towns and villages and cities in far parts of the country. The governor found ‘nothing wrong’. It was a quiet, restful place where you could think, he announced.
A quiet, restful place, thought Eugene Emory as he sat down. Just what I need now! A quiet, restful place, closely resembling a grave. And these are my companions, these dolt-faced women and men, waiting. He saw that one by one, in perfect silence and composure, they rose at the chiming of a bell, opened the oaken door, and disappeared from sight. That was all. My God, what am I doing here? thought Eugene Emory, thinking of what he must tell his wife tomorrow, and his children.
He was forty-nine years old. He had worked all his life, worked while going to high school, worked while going to the university in his home city. He had known nothing but work all his life. He had not resented that until a month ago, or was it two months? Then his resentment had reached fury. He had been so enraged that he had lost two of his easiest cases in court, and the judge, his friend, had looked at him with concern. Three days later he had looked at him sternly and had called him to account with a threat of punishment for contempt of court. Emory, Dean and Hartford had lost face through him, he who had established the firm. Jack Dean, his best friend, had told him that he looked sick and that he was perhaps too tired. “I’ve been feeling like a sick pup,” he had finally admitted. “I suppose I need a vacation. Haven’t had one in eight years; no time. You ought to know that. I’ll talk to Emily tonight, and maybe we can plan something, a cruise or a trip to Europe.”
His wife had been joyful over the idea, but first she had insisted that he see the family physician for a thorough examination. “I hardly know the man,” he had protested. “I only know his bills, and that’s enough! What are you doing here, running a hospital?” But Emily could not be turned aside and, fuming, he had gone to the physician. “I have only an hour to spare,” he told the doctor immediately on entering the examination room. “I’m very busy, you know. How are you?” he added as a belated thought. Had he ever seen this competent youngish man before? He seemed vaguely familiar. At the club? In his house?
“I’m all right. But I don’t think you are,” said the doctor, looking at the ghostly face of his
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