With the swiftness of a hammer stroke, the blow fell. He had held the card in his hand. It was attached to a long sheet of paper, columns divided by fine lines, subdivided into narrow boxes.
"The sum of human misery," Dr. Murrell had said. He had been cheerful. "It isn't anything," he added. "That is, anything of importance. Normal heart, lungs, metabolism on the minus side. And then a red circle—danger. Wasserman plus one."
Leisurely spoken words. "That means?" Ken asked.
"A local syphilitic condition. Easy to treat. A few months' care. Occasional treatment for a year or so. I suspected as much the other day."
"But—but will I be able to dance?"
"By January, yes."
Ken had left Dr. Murrell's office with firm step, head up. His homeward path took him through Central Park. Anger, blind red anger was rising within him as he strode along, pulse accentuated into trip-hammer beat against his ears. The day was uncommonly cool for late August. Boys were kicking and passing footballs on the playground field. A short cut traversed a mass of rock. Ken breathlessly trod the tall grass at the base of the pile. Beyond, past the iron railing, the road, motor cars hurrying, the bridle path vanishing behind a softly carpeted green knoll and emerging straight and dusty, before the sheep meadow.
Ken quit the park at Seventy-second Street. The door of his apartment was open. No one was in the living room. Shades drawn, heavy red curtain shutting out even a faint reflected light, the room was dark and cool. In the bedroom, Tommy lay sleeping. He wore a pair of Ken's pajamas. The sleeves were too long, the legs drooped oddly
