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“Book Cover”

THE FIRE IN
THE FLINT

WALTER F. WHITE

NEW YORK

ALFRED • A • KNOPF

MCMXXIV

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO
MY WIFE

“The fire in the flint never shows until it is struck.”

Old English Proverb.

THE FIRE IN
THE FLINT

[11]

CHAPTER I

KennethHarper gazed slowly around his office. A smile of satisfactionwreathed his face, reflecting his inward contentment. He felt like arunner who sees ahead of him the coveted goal towards which he has beenstraining through many gruelling miles. Kenneth was tired but he gave nothought to his weariness. Two weeks of hard work, countless annoyances,seemingly infinite delays—all were now forgotten in the warm glow whichpervaded his being. He, Kenneth B. Harper, M.D., was now ready toreceive the stream of patients he felt sure was coming.

He walked around the room and fingered with almost loving tendernessthe newly installed apparatus. He adjusted and readjusted theexamining-table of shining nickel and white enamel which had arrivedthat morning from New York. He arranged again the black leather pads andcushions. With his handkerchief he wiped imaginary spots of dust fromthe plate glass door and shelves of the instrument case, though hissister Mamie had polished them but half an hour before until they shonewith crystal clearness. Instrument after instrument he fondled with theair of a connoisseur examining a rare bit of porcelain. He fingeredcritically their various [12]parts to see if all were in perfect condition. He tore a stamp from anold letter and placed it under the lens of the expensive microscopeadjusting and readjusting until every feature of the stamp stood outclearly even to the most infinite detail. He raised and lowered half adozen times or more the lid of the nickelled sterilizer. He set atvarious angles the white screen which surrounded the examining-table,viewed it each time from different corners of the room, and rearrangedit until it was set just right. He ran his hand over the card indexfiles in his small desk. He looked at the clean white cards with thetabs on them—the cards which, though innocent now of writing, he hopedand expected would soon be filled with the names of innumerable sickpeople he was treating.

His eye caught what he thought was a pucker in thegrey-and-blue-chequered linoleum which covered the floor. He went overand moved the sectional bookcase containing his volumes on obstetrics,on gynæcology, on materia medica, on the diseases he knew hewould treat as a general practitioner of medicine in so small a place asCentral City. No, that wasn’t a pucker—it was only the light from thewindow striking it at that angle.

“Dr. Kenneth B. Harper, Physician and Surgeon.” He spelled out theletters which were painted on the upper panes of the two windows facingon State Street. It thrilled him that eight years of hard work had endedand he now was at the point in his life towards w

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