temperate in your habits--all of which gives you a better chance--if
you will throw the weight of your influence on the side of the
builders--there is a good chance of winning--I should think with your
Irish blood you would enjoy the fight, Clay."

The young doctor turned around suddenly and threw back his head, with
an impatient gesture.

"I love a fight, Dr. Brander, but it has to be of something worth
while. I have fought for the life of a man, a woman, a child, and I
have fought joyfully--for life is sweet, and I desired it for these
people, believing it to be a good gift. But in the fight you outline
for me, I see nothing to fire man's heart. I won't fight for life if
it means just breathing and scraping along at a poor, dying rate,
cheating the undertaker of a nice little piece of legitimate
business--I can't grow enthusiastic over the prospect of
always thinking about myself--and my rest--and my sleep--or my
clothes--always looking for a draught or fleeing from the night air or
a thunderstorm--never able to do a man's job or a day's work. I can't
do it, Dr. Brander, and you couldn't do it. It's a poor, miserable,
dull existence, unhappy for me, and no service to any one."

Two red spots burned in his cheeks, and the old doctor, noticing them,
wished again that he had come to see him sooner.

"See here, Clay," he said, sitting down again, with his hands spread
out on his knees, "you exaggerate this thing. You do not think you
are working unless you are slaving and owling around all hours of the
night, setting bones and pulling teeth, or ushering into this wicked
world sundry squalling babies who never asked to come, and do not like