It was mid-March when I became convinced that I was "wrong." Near the close of winter I had developed a hacking cough with occasional chest pains, but with masculine mulishness had refused to recognize any untoward symptoms. I was not a sissy, to let a common cold frighten me and send me trembling to the doctor. I began to lose flesh and grow pale, whereas I had been of fine frame, and decidedly athletic. Then I discovered a fleck of crimson on my handkerchief one day after a hard coughing spell. I got up from my desk with unsteady knees and a chilly feeling down my spine, and went to 'Crombie. He was generally known as Abercrombie Dane, M. D., but we grew up hand in hand, as it were, and so--I went to 'Crombie. He was a fine, big animal; head of a Hercules and strength of a jack and sense like Solon. A rare man. I told him my tale shamefacedly, for I realized now I had acted a fool, and that maybe my day of grace had passed. He knew I was scared, for he was sensitive, in spite of his bulk and seeming brusqueness. There was pity in his eyes before I finished, and I had to grapple with myself to keep the moisture out of mine, his sympathy was so real. Then I silently gave him the handkerchief, with the telltale stain. He looked at it absently, and rubbed it gently with the tip of one big finger. "My son," he said--it was an affectionate form of address which he nearly always employed--"you are starting a colony." His deep voice was very steady. "A _what_?" I demanded. "Bugs," he replied, laconically, and looked me squarely in the eyes. "_Bugs!_" I cried, feeling the cold hand of Fear at my heart. He shut his lips tightly, and nodded three or four times. For a few moments I was literally and positively paralyzed. I felt as if he had pronounced sentence of death. 'Crombie had dropped his eyes, and his broad, strong face was serious. My nature is buoyant, and presently the reaction came. "Are they crawlin' yet, Doc?" I asked, a smile struggling to my lips. I cannot understand now why I asked that question. Perhaps it was a foolish attempt at bravado in the presence of a serious fact just discovered. He did not answer. He recognized the query as flippant, and his nature was deep. He sat looking at the floor a long time, and I did not intrude again upon his thoughts. But I imagined I felt a tickling beneath my ribs, as of many tiny feet at work. _Bugs!_ Ugh! At last 'Crombie's shaggy head came up. "There's a chance--a good chance," he said, and I felt courage spreading through me like wine, for 'Crombie never spoke hastily, nor at random.