incessant, nervous, querulous activity of eyes, lips, hands, as he
dismissed each with a word or a scratch of the pen, and looked up
sharply at the next one.

"Well, young man," he greeted me, "what do you want?"

I replied: "I want a half hour of your time."

"Good God," he said, in a sort of reproachful indignation, "I couldn't
give it to the President of the United States."

I felt the crowd of applicants pressing behind me. I knew the man's
prodigious humanity. I knew that if I could only hold them back long
enough--"Mr. Hewitt," I said, "it's more important even than that.
It's to save a whole people from suffering--from destruction."

He may have thought me a maniac; or it may be that the desperation of
the moment sounded in my voice. He frowned intently up at me. "Who are
you?"

"I'm the son of your old friend in Congress, George Q. Cannon of Utah,"
I said. "My father's in exile. He and his people are threatened with
endless proscriptions. I want time to tell you."

His impatience had vanished. His eyes were steadily kind and interested.
"Can you come to the Board of Health, in an hour? As soon as I open the
meeting, I'll retire and listen to you."

I asked him for a card, to admit me to the meeting, having been stopped
that morning at many doors. He gave it, nodded, and flashed his