When the Board had gone, Martin and Terry flooded into Gottlieb's laboratory and found the old man standing by his bench, more erect than they had seen him for years.
"Is it true—they want you to be Director?" panted Martin.
"Yes, they have asked me.'
"But you'll refuse? You won't let 'em gum up your work!"
"Vell. . . . I said my real work must go on. They consent I should appoint an Assistant Director to do the detail. You see— Of course nothing must interfere with my immunology, but dis gives me the chance to do big t'ings and make a free scientific institute for all you boys. And those fools at Winnemac that laughed at my idea of a real medical school, now maybe they will see— Do you know who was my rival for Director—do you know who it was, Martin? It was that man Silva! Ha!"
In the corridor Terry groaned, "Requiescat in pace."
To the dinner in Gottlieb's honor (the only dinner that ever was given in Gottlieb's honor) there came not only the men of impressive but easy affairs who attend all dinners of honor, but the few scientists whom Gottlieb admired.
He appeared late, rather shaky, escorted by Martin. When he reached the speakers' table, the guests rose to him, shouting. He peered at them, he tried to speak, he held out his long arms as if to take them all in, and sank down sobbing.
There were cables from Europe; ardent letters from Tubbs and Dean Silva bewailing their inability to be present; telegrams from college presidents; and all of these were read to admiring applause.
But Capitola murmured, "Just the same, we shall miss dear Dr. Tubbs. He was so forward-looking. Don't play with your fork, Ross."
So Max Gottlieb took charge of the McGurk Institute of Biology, and in a month that Institute became a shambles.
Gottlieb planned to give only an hour a day to business. As Assistant Director he appointed Dr. Aaron Sholtheis, the epidemiologist, the Yonkers churchman and dahlia-fancier.
