He drew his shirt up from a compact loin and lean middle, revealing the arch of his deep chest, the flesh of which was healthy pink under neck and face plated with Indian tan. The doctor's eyes lighted with the bliss of a critic used to searching for flaws at sight of a masterpiece. While he conducted the initial plottings with the rubber cup which carried sounds to one of the most expensive senses of hearing in America, Jack was gazing out of the window, as if his mind were far away across the cactus-spotted levels.
"Breathe deep!" commanded the doctor.
Jack's nostrils quivered with the indrawing of a great gust of air and his diaphragm swelled until his ribs were like taut bowstrings.
"And you were the pasty-faced weakling that left my office five years ago—and you, you husky giant, have brought me two thousand miles to see if you were really convalescent!"
"I hope the trip will do you good!" said Jack, sweetly.
"But it is great news that I take back, great news!" said the doctor, as he put the stethoscope in his pocket.
"Yes?" returned Jack, slipping his head through his shirt. "You don't find even a speck?"
"Not a speck! No sign of the lesion! There is no reason why you should not have gone home long ago."
"No?" Jack was fastening his string tie and doing this with something of the urban nicety with which the doctor had folded his gloves. That tie was one of the few inheritances from complex civilization which still had Jack's favor.
"What have you found to do all these years?"