He had
expended much thought on the subject of germs. Mamie, questioned, could
give him no more definite information than that they were "things which
got at you and hurt you," and his awe of Mrs. Porter had kept him from
going to the fountainhead of knowledge for further data.
Building on the information to hand, he had formed in his mind an odd
kind of anthropomorphic image of the germ. He pictured it as a squat,
thick-set man of repellent aspect and stealthy movements, who sneaked
up on you when you were not looking and did unpleasant things to you,
selecting as the time for his attacks those nights when you had allowed
your attention to wander while saying your prayers.
On such occasions it was Bill's practice to fool him by repeating his
prayers to himself in bed after the official ceremony. Some times, to
make certain, he would do this so often that he fell asleep in
mid-prayer.
He was always glad of the night-light. A germ hates light, preferring
to do his scoundrelly work when it is so black that you can't see your
hand in front of your face and the darkness presses down on you like a
blanket. Occasionally a fear would cross his mind that the night-light
might go out; but it never did, being one of Mr. Edison's best electric
efforts neatly draped with black veiling.
Apart from this he had few worries, certainly none serious enough to
keep him awake.
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