luggage and new arrivals. Groups of patients lounged about, contentedly sipping milk and peach nectar from long-stemmed glasses; nurses bent over hypochondriacal matrons in wheelchairs; a murmur of voices whispered of the stock market, the theater, Caruso and Farrar, and the newest motorcars from Ford and Olds. There was Dr. Baculum with that Pittsburgh woman, wife of the steel magnate, what was hername?—Wallford? Walters? Walldorp?—and Admiral Nieblock at the telegraph cubicle with the Crouder woman, a blur of nurses, Meta Sinclair. Dr. Kellogg moved purposively through the room, nodding, waving, nothing in the world the matter, a bit of a hurry, that was all, some poor unfortunate at his elbow, and of course he knew they didn’t want to see this side of things, but the Sanitarium
was
a charitable institution, after all, and their Chief was a saint, they had to understand that, a veritable saint.
Halfway across—fifty people at least crowding round the desk, the staircase, lining the benches and flowing in and out of the Palm Garden at the rear—George suddenly jerked his arm from the Doctor’s grasp and came to a halt. “One hundred dollars, Dad, Pater, Pa—one hundred dollars or I scream my lungs out right here and now.”
Fifty pairs of eyes were on them, the Doctor all grins and smiles, throwing kisses, winking, waving, nodding, everything under control. One sharp glance at his son: “In my office. We’ll discuss it there.”
Dab crowded them. George wouldn’t budge. “ SHALL I ,” he suddenly barked, his voice a ragged tear in the genteel fabric of the room before it dropped again to a whisper, “Shall I raise my voice?”
No one got the better of John Harvey Kellogg, no one. He was master of all he surveyed, Chief, king, confessor and patriarch to his thousands of dyspeptic patients and the forty-two children he and Ella had adopted over the years. There were the Charlie Posts of the world, to be sure, there was his brother, Will, who’d bought the corn-flake concession out from under his nose, there were the Phelpses and the Macfaddens and all the rest of them, and maybe they won the skirmishes, yet John Harvey Kellogg won the wars. Always. But the situation was delicate, he understood that, and he fought down his anger. “March down that corridor and into my office this minute,” he said in a harsh whisper, “and it’s yours.”
George stood there half a beat longer, whiskers bristling, malice dancing in his loamy eyes. Then he dropped his arms and collapsed his shoulders. “It’s a deal,” he said.
Suddenly the three of them were moving again, the audience from the Grand Parlor just now spilling into the lobby behind them, the Doctor firing looks right, left and over his shoulder, practically scamperingon his truncated legs and driving George before him with a firm and unwavering hand. He was almost there, almost out of it, almost safe, when a peremptory female voice took hold of him like a grappling hook. “Dr. Kellogg!” the voice rang out, and he was caught. Feet faltering, a weary automatic smile pressed to his lips, he wheeled round to find an impeccably draped female form engulfed in a maelstrom of luggage. Beside her and two paces to the rear rose the towering sticklike wraith of a long-nosed young man with flat feet and posture so egregious he might just as well have had curvature of the spine. “Doctor,” she chirped, “Dr. Kellogg, what a pleasure to see you again,” and his hand vanished in the grip of her black kid glove.
The party had halted in the middle of the room, Dab arrested in mid-waddle, George drooping like a frost-burned plant, the Doctor pulled up short. “Why,” he gasped, beaming, beaming, the genial host and courtly physician, “if it isn’t Mrs., Mrs.—?”
“Lightbody,” she returned, “Eleanor. And this,” indicating the gaunt, broken-down figure beside her, “this is my husband, Will.”
An awkward pause. Though George had faded back a
was
a charitable institution, after all, and their Chief was a saint, they had to understand that, a veritable saint.
Halfway across—fifty people at least crowding round the desk, the staircase, lining the benches and flowing in and out of the Palm Garden at the rear—George suddenly jerked his arm from the Doctor’s grasp and came to a halt. “One hundred dollars, Dad, Pater, Pa—one hundred dollars or I scream my lungs out right here and now.”
Fifty pairs of eyes were on them, the Doctor all grins and smiles, throwing kisses, winking, waving, nodding, everything under control. One sharp glance at his son: “In my office. We’ll discuss it there.”
Dab crowded them. George wouldn’t budge. “ SHALL I ,” he suddenly barked, his voice a ragged tear in the genteel fabric of the room before it dropped again to a whisper, “Shall I raise my voice?”
No one got the better of John Harvey Kellogg, no one. He was master of all he surveyed, Chief, king, confessor and patriarch to his thousands of dyspeptic patients and the forty-two children he and Ella had adopted over the years. There were the Charlie Posts of the world, to be sure, there was his brother, Will, who’d bought the corn-flake concession out from under his nose, there were the Phelpses and the Macfaddens and all the rest of them, and maybe they won the skirmishes, yet John Harvey Kellogg won the wars. Always. But the situation was delicate, he understood that, and he fought down his anger. “March down that corridor and into my office this minute,” he said in a harsh whisper, “and it’s yours.”
George stood there half a beat longer, whiskers bristling, malice dancing in his loamy eyes. Then he dropped his arms and collapsed his shoulders. “It’s a deal,” he said.
Suddenly the three of them were moving again, the audience from the Grand Parlor just now spilling into the lobby behind them, the Doctor firing looks right, left and over his shoulder, practically scamperingon his truncated legs and driving George before him with a firm and unwavering hand. He was almost there, almost out of it, almost safe, when a peremptory female voice took hold of him like a grappling hook. “Dr. Kellogg!” the voice rang out, and he was caught. Feet faltering, a weary automatic smile pressed to his lips, he wheeled round to find an impeccably draped female form engulfed in a maelstrom of luggage. Beside her and two paces to the rear rose the towering sticklike wraith of a long-nosed young man with flat feet and posture so egregious he might just as well have had curvature of the spine. “Doctor,” she chirped, “Dr. Kellogg, what a pleasure to see you again,” and his hand vanished in the grip of her black kid glove.
The party had halted in the middle of the room, Dab arrested in mid-waddle, George drooping like a frost-burned plant, the Doctor pulled up short. “Why,” he gasped, beaming, beaming, the genial host and courtly physician, “if it isn’t Mrs., Mrs.—?”
“Lightbody,” she returned, “Eleanor. And this,” indicating the gaunt, broken-down figure beside her, “this is my husband, Will.”
An awkward pause. Though George had faded back a
Similar Books
