William Bannister Winfield slept the peaceful sleep of childhood in his
sterilized cot. The light gleamed faintly on the white tiles. It lit up
the brass knobs on the walls, the spotless curtains, the large
thermometer.
An intruder, interested in these things, would have seen by a glance at
this last that the temperature of the room was exactly that recommended
by doctors as the correct temperature for the nursery of a sleeping
child; no higher, no lower. The transom over the door was closed, but
the window was open at the top to precisely the extent advocated by the
authorities, due consideration having been taken for the time of year
and the condition of the outer atmosphere.
The hour was one in the morning.
Childhood is a readily adaptable time of life, and William Bannister,
after a few days of blank astonishment, varied by open mutiny, had
accepted the change in his surroundings and daily existence with
admirable philosophy. His memory was not far-reaching, and, as time
went on and he began to accommodate himself to the new situation, he
had gradually forgotten the days at the studio, as, it is to be
supposed, he had forgotten the clouds of glory which he had trailed on
his entry into this world. If memories of past bear-hunts among the
canvases on the dusty floor ever came to him now, he never mentioned
it.
A child can weave romance into any condition of life in which fate
places him; and William Bannister had managed to interest himself in
his present existence with a considerable gusto. Scraps of conversation
between Mrs. Porter and Mamie, overheard and digested, had given him a
good working knowledge of the system of hygiene of which he was the
centre. He was vague as to details, but not vaguer than most people.
He knew that something called 'sterilizing' was the beginning and end
of life, and that things known as germs were the Great Peril. He had
expended much thought on the subject of germs. Mamie, questioned, could
give him no more definite information than that they were 'things which
got at you and hurt you,' and his awe of Mrs. Porter had kept him from
going to the fountainhead of knowledge for further data.
Building on the information to hand, he had formed in his mind an odd
kind of anthropomorphic image of the germ. He pictured it as a squat,
thick-set man of repellent aspect and stealthy movements, who sneaked
up on you when you were not looking and did unpleasant things to you,
selecting as the time for his attacks those nights when you had allowed
your attention to wander while saying your prayers.
On such occasions it was Bill's practice to fool him by repeating his
prayers to himself in bed after the official ceremony. Some times, to
make certain, he would do this so often that he fell asleep in
mid-prayer.
He was always glad of the night-light. A germ hates light, preferring
to do his scoundrelly work when it is so black that you can't see your
hand in front of your face and the darkness presses down on you like a
blanket. Occasionally a fear would cross his mind that the night-light
might go out; but it never did, being one of Mr. Edison's best electric
efforts neatly draped with black veiling.
