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dots might not be malaria parasites at all, but only pigment coming from the blood in the mosquito's gullet. There certainly was need for this caution, for he was not sure where his brown mosquitoes came from: some of them might have sneaked in through a hole in the net—and those intruders might have bitten a bird or beast before they fed on his Hindu patient. It was a most mixed-up business. But he could write poems about saving the lives of a million men!

Such a man was Ronald Ross, mad poet shaking his fist in the face of the malignant Indian sun, celebrating uncertain discoveries with triumphant verses, spreading nets with maybe no holes in them. . . . But you must give him this: he had been lifted up. And, as you will see, it was to the everlasting honor of Ronald Ross that he was exalted by this seemingly so piffling experiment. He clawed his way—and this is one of the major humors of human life!—with unskilled but enthusiastic fingers toward the uncovering of a murderous fact and a complicated fact. A fact you would swear it would take the sure intelligence of some god to uncover.

Then came one of those deplorable interludes. The High Authorities of the Indian Medical Service failed to appreciate him. They sent him off to active duty at doctoring, mere doctoring. Ronald Ross rained telegrams on his Principal Medical Officer. He implored Manson way off there in England. In vain. They packed him off up north, where there were few mosquitoes, where the few he did catch would not bite—it was so cold, where the natives (they were Bhils) were so superstitious and savage they would not let him prick their fingers. All he could do was fish trout and treat cases of itch. How he raved!

But Patrick Manson did not fail him, and presently Ross came down from the north, to Calcutta, to a good laboratory, to assistants, to mosquitoes, to as many—for that city was a