“Oh, yes,” he replied tranquilly. “I’ve done my bit of hero worship in my time. In fact, I’ve never quite recovered from it.” “No! Really? Do go on. You’re growing more human every minute.” “Do you happen to know anything about the Havana campaign?” “Not much. It never seemed to me anything to brag of. Dad says the Spanish-American War grew a crop of newspaper-made heroes, manufactured by reporters who really took more risks and showed more nerve than the men they glorified.” “Spanish-American War? That isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m speaking of Walter Reed and his fellow scientists, who went down there and fought the mosquitoes.” The girl’s lip curled. “So that’s your idea of heroism! Scrubby peckers into the lives of helpless bugs!” “Have you the faintest idea what you are talking about?” His voice had abruptly hardened. There was an edge to it; such an edge as she had faintly heard on the previous night, when Carroll had pressed him too hard. She was startled. “Perhaps I haven’t,” she admitted. “Then it’s time you learned. Three American doctors went down into that pesthole of a Cuban city to offer their lives for a theory. Not for a tangible fact like the flag, or for glory and fame as in battle, but for a theory that might or might not be true. There wasn’t a day or a night that their lives weren’t at stake. Carroll let himself be bitten by infected mosquitoes on a final test, and grazed death by a hair’s breadth. Lazear was bitten at his work, and died in the agony of yellow-fever convulsions, a martyr and a hero if ever there was one. Because of them, Havana is safe and livable now. We were able to build the Panama Canal because of their work, their—what did you call it?—scrubby peeking into the lives of—” “Don’t!” cried the girl. “I—I’m ashamed. I didn’t know.” “How should you?” he said, in a changed tone. “We Americans set up monuments to our destroyers, not to our preservers, of life. Nobody knows about Walter Reed and James Carroll and Jesse Lazear—not even the American Government, which they officially served—except a few doctors and dried-up entomologists like myself. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to deliver a lecture.” There was a long pause, which she broke with an effort. “Mr. Beetle Man?” “Yes, Voice?” “I—I’m beginning to think you rather more man than beetle at times.” “Well, you see, you touched me on a point of fanaticism,” he apologized. “Do you mind standing up again for examination? No,” she decided, as he stepped out and stood with his eyes lowered obstinately. “You don’t seem changed to outward view. You still remind me,” with a ripple of irrepressible laughter, “of a near-sighted frog. It’s those ridiculous glasses. Why do you wear them?” “To keep the sun out of my eyes.” “And the moon at night, I suppose. They’re not for purposes of disguise?” “Disguise! What makes you say that?” he asked quickly.