CHAPTER VI


Even the apple-jack and euchre at Georgie K.'s were not sufficient to
entirely establish Doctor Gordon in his devil-may-care mood. Georgie K.
kept looking at him with solicitation, which had something tender about
it. "Don't you feel well, Doc?" he asked.

"Never felt better in my life," returned Gordon quickly. "To-night I am
feeling particularly good, because I really think I have evolved an
utterly new theory of death and disease which ought to make me famous,
if I ever get a chance to write a book about it."

Georgie K. stared at him inquiringly.

"I don't know that you will understand, old man," said Gordon, "but here
it is. It is simple in one way. Nobody will deny that we come of the
earth; well, we are sick and die of the earth. We grow old and weary and
drop into our graves, because of the tremendous, though unconscious and
involuntary, wear upon nerves and muscles and emotion which is required
to keep us here at all. Gravitation kills us all in the end, just as
surely as if we fell off a precipice. Gravitation is the destroyer, and
gravitation is earth-force. The same monster which produces us devours
us. That's so. I hope I shall get a chance to write that book. Clubs are
trumps; pass."

"Sure you are well, Doc?" inquired Georgie K., again scowling anxiously.