“You bet I would,” said Stalton, perching himself up on his elbow, and gazing with fearful apprehension at the renowned physician. “Some doctors said there wasn’t anything wrong with me.”
“But there is,” said Adamson, emphatically.
“Well, I knew it, I—”
“You have a really serious complaint, Mr. Stalton.”
“Is there any hope of curing it?”
“That all depends on you, Mr. Stalton. But first let me explain. And in doing so I want you to believe every word I say. I don’t want you to be hurt by anything I say, either. I have given you a careful examination and have located your trouble, but it’s not the kind of trouble you think it is.”
“No?”
“No. Your stomach is anatomically normal, although it is not working in perfect physiological harmony. It is influenced by your mind very considerably. Your head contains a real ache, and your back contains a real ache, and your legs get really tired. You feel weak most of the time. You find it hard to stick at one occupation. These are real troubles, not imaginary. Your body is—well, rather rebellious against work. Is that not true?”
“It certainly is, doctor. I—”