Smith is a queer sort of fellow--rather reticent in manner it seems to me. However, he is a new patron of mine and perhaps I do not quite understand him. I was first called in to see the baby, and haven’t had very much opportunity to converse with the father. At the present rate of progress, I am not likely to get much better acquainted, for, come to think of it, he seems somewhat inclined to avoid me. But Smith’s friends say that he is a thoroughly good fellow; indeed, that he is “one of the boys.” Once in a while, Smith seems to be more than ordinarily anxious about the baby--apparently through pride rather than affection, for the little one really seems to be the bane of his existence. He did unbend once, enough to ask me if there wasn’t some way to cure the child’s snuffles and keep “those d--d blotches” off its face, but I am sure he was thinking more of the comments of his neighbors than of the child’s comfort. I don’t believe that Smith cares a straw about his young one’s digestion, yet he swore like a pirate when he saw the irregular manner in which its second teeth were coming in. Not that I blame him much for swearing, for those teeth do look more like those of a saw than such as a baby of good breeding is expected to develop. Still, the child is not to blame for his bad teeth. Smith knows that, if he knows anything. I suppose I ought not to say it, but I honestly believe that Smith would far rather his child would die than live. The poor little thing had a bad attack of cholera infantum a while ago, and narrowly missed going to the land where babies’ stomachs are at rest and pimples are unknown. It is a dreadful thing to say, but I really suspect that Smith was--well, not exactly pleased with the results of my treatment. He made a remark the other day that was suggestive, to say the least. He said there were too many new-fangled ideas in the treatment of children’s diseases to suit him. “Toxins,” said he, “were invented, I suppose, to cover up medical ignorance.” I did not reply, for, as I have already remarked, Smith and I have not become very friendly as yet. But the Smith baby is a very interesting study, and I can tolerate its father’s peculiar ways for the child’s sake, and for the interest the case affords me. I lolled back in my favorite chair puffing the fragrant smoke in fantastic rings, carelessly aimed at the chandelier overhead, and revolving the case of the Smith baby in my mind. I do not know how long I sat there musing, but I finally fell into that half dreamy state which, with me, is a positive sign of an impending nap. Even my cigar was becoming sleepy and had begun to smolder. Being in no mood to tolerate interruption, I fear it was with some irritation that I shouted, in response to a timid rap at the door: “Come in!” The door opened, and in walked--Smith’s baby!