"The opposite eemediate block."
Dr. Surtaine eyed with disfavor the festering tenement indicated. "New cases?"
"I am in charge. Mr. O'Farrell employs my services: so the pipple have not to pay
anything. All the time which I am not at the Certina factory, I am here."
"Just so. And no other doctor gets in?"
"There is no call. They are quite satisfied."
"And is the Board of Health satisfied?"
The employee shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "How is it you Americans
say? 'What he does not know cannot hurt somebody.'"
"Is O'Farrell agent for all these barracks?" Dr. Surtaine inquired as they walked up the
street.
"All. Many persons own, but Mr. O'Farrell is boss of all. This Number 4, Mr. Gibbs
owns. He is of the great department store. You know. A ver' fine man, Mr. Gibbs."
"A very fine fool," retorted the Doctor, "to let himself get mixed up with such rotten
property. Why, it's a reflection on all us men of standing."
"Nobody knows he is owner. And it pays twelve per cent," said the Italian mildly. He
paused at the door. "Do we go in?" he asked.
An acrid-soft odor as of primordial slime subtly intruded upon the sensory nerves of the
visitor. The place breathed out decay; the decay of humanity, of cleanliness, of the honest
decencies of life turned foul. Something lethal exhaled from that dim doorway. There
was a stab of pestilence, reaching for the brain. But the old charlatan was no coward.
"Show me the cases," he said.
For an hour he moved through the black, stenchful passageways, up and down
ramshackle stairs, from human warren to human warren, pausing here to question, there
to peer and sniff and poke with an exploring cane. Out on the street again he drew full,
heaving breath.
"O'Farrell's got to clean up. That's all there is to that," he said decisively.
