But Ronald Ross--alas--could not grab that discovery of _human_ malaria, not for science, nor humanity, nor for England--nor (what was worst) for himself. He had come to the end of his rope. And among all microbe hunters, there is for me no more tortured man than this same Ronald Ross. There have been searchers who have failed--they have kept on hunting with the naturalness of ducks swimming; there have been searchers who have succeeded gloriously--but they were hunters born, and they kept on hunting in spite of the seductions of glory. But Ross! Here was a man who could only do patient experiments--with a tragic impatience, in agony, against the clamoring of his instincts that yelled against the priceless loneliness that is the one condition for all true searching. He had visions of himself at the head of important committees, and you can _feel_ his dreams of medals and banquets and the hosannahs of multitudes.... He must grab the discovery for England. He tried gray mosquitoes and green and brown and dappled-winged mosquitoes on Hindus rotten with malaria--but it was no go! He became sleepless and lost eleven pounds. He forgot things. He could not repeat even those first crude experiments at Secunderababad. And yet--all honor to Ronald Ross. He did marvelous things in spite of himself. It was his travail that helped the learned, the expert, the indignant Battista Grassi to do those clean superb experiments that must end in wiping malaria from the earth. VI