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prime of his life, but tired, so tired, died—just as the applause of nations grew thunderous—of appendicitis. "I am leaving my wife and daughter so little . . ." said Walter Reed to his friend Kean, just before the ether cone went done over his face. "So little . . " he mumbled as the ether let him down into his last dreams. But let us be proud of our nation and proud of our Congress—for they voted Mrs. Emilie Laurence Reed, wife of the man who has saved the world no one know what millions of dollars—let us say nothing of lives—they voted her a handsome pension, of fifteen hundred dollars a year! And the same for the widow of Lazear, and the same for the widow of James Carroll—and surely that was handsome for them, because, as one committee of senators quaintly said: "They can still help themselves."

But what of Private Kissinger, of Ohio, who stood that test, in the interest of science—and for humanity? He didn't die from yellow fever. And they prevailed upon him, at last, to accept one hundred and fifteen dollars and a gold watch, which was presented to him in the presence of the officers and men of Columbia barracks. He didn't die—but what was worse, as the yellow fever germs went out of him, a paralysis crept into him—now he sits, counting the hours on his gold watch. But what luck! At the last account he had a good wife to support him by taking in washing.

And what of the others? Time is too short to deal with those others—and besides I do not know what has become of them. So it is that this strange crew has made rendezvous, each one with his special and particular fate—this strange crew who put the capstone on that most marvelous ten years of the microbe hunters, that crew who worked together so that now, in 1926, there is hardly enough of the poison of yellow fever left in the world to put on the points of six pins. . . .

So it is that the good death-fighter, David Bruce, should eat his words: "It is impossible, at present, to experiment with human beings."