There is no doubt but that all his rare promises would have been more than fulfilled, but one day The Man fell ill. He had, in fact, been ailing for some time. His physician warned him of the fact; his wife realized it; his children felt its effects, but he, himself, refused to admit it. He might be a little under the weather—every man is at times—but there was nothing serious the matter with him—nothing that his splendid constitution would not carry him safely over.
And so he grew worse. He became uncertain in his methods, capricious as to his appetite. His business dealings were characterized, now by keen astuteness of judgment, now by weakness and a childish changefulness of purpose, just as he happened to be feeling better or worse that day.
Every now and then he would awake to a semi-realization of his own condition, and declare he was going to ruin, would die soon if he did not do something to help himself. Then he would summon the doctors, and they would consider his case and prescribe, some one remedy, some another. They never seemed able to agree as to what ailed him, or the remedy that was indicated, but each could prescribe something which he was quite certain would affect a cure.
And The Man would follow first one prescribed course of treatment, then another, until perhaps his headache would abate, his gastric difficulty would moderate, or his liver would become less inactive, and then, “I have recovered,” he would say; “I told you I would. You see there is nothing the matter with me.”
There came a day, however, when The Man lay prostrate, and the doctors met in solemn conclave over him.
There was no mistake about it this time. He was undeniably sick.
“He is in a bad way,” they said. “Energetic measures must be instituted, or The Man will die.”
They could not, however, agree upon the diagnosis.
“His lungs are nearly gone,” was the opinion of one.
“There is a general condition of congestion that should be relieved at once,” said another. “The Man should be bled to save his life,” and they bled him.