CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH HE PRESCRIBES FOR HIMSELF
“Red,” observed James Macauley, junior, “this place of yours looks like a drunkard's home.”
He glanced around him as he spoke. The criticism certainly found justification in every corner. No more neglected office could have been discovered belonging to any practitioner within an area of many miles.
“I suppose it does,” rejoined Burns from the depths of a big, dusty leather chair where he sat stretched in an attitude expressing extreme fatigue. “But I don't care a hang.”
Macauley looked at him. His eyes were closed. His arms lay upon the chair arms, relaxed and limp. For the first time his friend observed what might have been noted by a critical eye on any day during the last fortnight. The lines on the ordinarily strong, health-tinted face were deeper than he had ever seen them; the cheeks were thinner; there were even shadows under the thick eyelashes which outlined the lids of the closed eyes.
“Look here, old man,” Macauley cried, sudden conviction seizing him, “you're working altogether too hard. This miserable city epidemic has done you out. I've thought all the time you were trying to cover too much ground.”
“Ground's had to be covered,” replied the other briefly, without opening his eyes.
“Have the other fellows worked as hard as you?”
“Harder.”
“I don't believe it. They're all city men. You've done all this city work and looked after your own patients here, too, to say nothing of living in both places at once. With your housekeeper gone home to her sick folks, and Miss Mathewson off on one of your cases—no wonder this place looks the way it does.”