For a scourge had come, and the city was trembling in the fear of
it. Again Duck Town was responsible. Duck Town always was
responsible. Every spring when the floods came, and Mud Creek
spread itself out over the prairie, only the ducks of Duck Town
were secure. Then, when the waters subsided, there came malaria,
or perhaps something worse, from the musty cellars that could not
be drained. The settlement lay in the bottoms, where the wretched
dwellings of the poor stood huddled together as if in whispered
conspiracy about some black contagion of a deadlier malice than
any that had yet struck terror to the hearts of men.

Several years ago it was typhoid fever that had helped many
people to move out of Duck Town. A very badly behaved disease it
was. It came right up into the city and went stalking brazenly
into the most stately homes along the wooded avenues and
beautiful boulevards.

Next after the ravages of typhoid came diphtheria in its most
malignant form, and this time--Heaven help us!--this time scarlet
fever had come. And this time, as before, there were competent
physicians to receive the plague; there were specialists and
careful nurses with snowy aprons and pretty caps.

But not in Duck Town. Down there the people knew a man whom they
called the Old Doctor. He was not old, not really; it was merely
that he had the manner of a veteran. He browbeat them shamefully,
as was perfectly proper for an old doctor; he bullied them a
great deal, and scolded, and called names, and worked for them,
and did not know how to sleep. That made them fear and respect