The doctor shut and locked his desk drawer upon his memorandum book with his right hand, and extended the left to his friend Manning Verrill, with the remark:
"Well, Manning, how are you?"
"If I were well, Henry," answered Verrill gravely, "I would not be here."
The doctor leaned back in his deep leather chair, and having carefully adjusted his glasses, tilted back his head, and looked at Verrill from beneath them. He waited for him to continue.
"It's my nerves—I suppose," began Verrill. "Henry," he declared suddenly leaning forward, "Henry, I'm scared; that's what's the matter with me—I'm scared."
"Scared," echoed the doctor, "What nonsense! What of?"
"Scared of death, Henry," broke out Verrill, "scared blue!"
"It is your nerves," murmured the doctor. "You need travel and a bromide, my boy. There's nothing the matter with you. Why, you're good for another forty years,—yes, or even for another fifty years. You're sound as a nut. You, to talk about death!"
"I've seen thirty—twenty-nine I should say, twenty-nine of my best friends go."
The doctor looked puzzled a moment; then—"Oh! you mean that club of yours," said he.