"Why, Dr. Lane!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin cordially, when she saw him.

"You left a call for me yesterday when I was out in the country," said
Dr. Lane, in a pleasant voice. "I did not get in until early this
morning. What's the trouble?"

"It's the children," said Mrs. Martin. "They've got scarlet fever. I
was so worried about Bobby yesterday that I sent for Dr. Caxton from
B----. We'll have to keep him now, I suppose, but do you want to look at
them anyhow? Mary doesn't want to take her medicine, and maybe you
could--"

"Certainly I'll go up and see them," said Dr. Lane. He was the kind of
man you would love to have for your grandfather. His pockets bulged
suspiciously as though they contained bags of lemon drops or peanuts.
Talking cheerfully all the while he entered the sick room and looked at
the patients.

"So Dr. Caxton said they had scarlet fever!" he said, musingly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Martin.

"Scarlet fever your grandmother!" returned Dr. Lane. "They've got
prickly heat. If Dr. Caxton called that scarlet fever, what would he
call a real case of scarlet fever?"

A minute later the man on guard heard a laugh that almost shook the
windows of the house. Not long after that he was pedaling down the road
on the bicycle that had brought him, very red in the face and very hot