For he disliked the sound of that cough.  He suspected that his old friend and opponent, Death, with whom he fought an interminable campaign, was mocking him from ambush.  It wasn’t quite fair play, either, for the foe to use the particular weapon indicated by the cough on a mere child.  With her lustrous hair loose and floating, and her small, eager, flushed face, she looked far short of the mature and self-reliant seventeen which was the tally of her experienced years.

“Hello,” greeted the Little Red Doctor, speaking with the brusque informality of one assured of his place as a local celebrity.  “I don’t know you, do I?”

Mayme lifted her eyes.  “If you don’t,” she drawled, “it ain’t for lack of tryin’.  Is your hat glued on?”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Little Red Doctor indignantly.  “Do you think I’m trying to flirt with you?  Why, you’re only a kid.”

“Get up to date,” advised Mayme.  “I’m old enough to be your steady.  Only, I’m too lucky.”

“That’s a bad cough you’ve got,” said the Little Red Doctor hastily.

“I’ve got a better one at home.  Like to hear it some day?”

“Bring it over to my office and let’s look at the thing,” suggested the Little Red Doctor, smiling.

As Mayme McCartney observed that smile with the shrewd judgment of men which comes early, in self-protection, to girls of her environment, the suspicion and impudence died out of her face, which became wistful.

“D’you think it means anything?” she asked.

“Any cough means something.  I couldn’t tell without examination.”

“How much?” inquired the cautious Mayme.

The Little Red Doctor is a willing liar in a good cause.  “No charge for first consultation.  Come over to my office.”

When the test was finished, the Little Red Doctor looked professionally non-committal.  “Live with your parents?” he asked.

“No.  With my aunt.  ’Round in the Avenue.”

“Where do you work?”

“The Emporium,” answered the girl, naming the great and still fashionable downtown department store, half a mile to the westward.

“You ought to quit.  As soon as possible.”

“And spoil my delicate digestion?”

“Who said anything about your digestion?”

“I did.  If I quit workin’, I quit eatin’.  And that’s bad for me.  I tried it once.”

“I see,” said the Little Red Doctor, recognizing a condition by no means unprecedented in local practice.  “Couldn’t you get a job in some better climate?”

“Where, for instance?”

“Well, if you knew any one in California.”

“How’s the walkin’?” asked Mayme.

“It’s long,” replied the Little Red Doctor, “seeing” again.  “Anyway, you’ve got to have fresh air.”

“They serve it fresh, every morning, right here in Our Square,” Mayme pointed out.

“Good idea.  Get up early and fill your lungs full of it for an hour every day.”  He gave some further instructions.