I hurried away toward the wards as if very busy, although I had but one patient in the hospital. She was there when I left for Panama, and had apparently waited, womanlike, to ask me the question, for there seemed to be nothing else the matter with her. But she paid me for my answer and was welcome to it.
Before I could escape from the building Doctor Paddock caught sight of me in time to stop me. He slowed up for a good talk, and exclaimed in his hail-fellow-well-metest manner:
“Why, Byford, how are you, old fellow? Did you have a pleasant trip?”
I threw up my right hand in Patrick Henry style and cried as I rushed by him toward the door:
“Did I? I had the time of my life, the very time of my life! Ha, ha!”
I shot out of the door, lost my footing, and slid all the way down the icy iron steps, reckless of life and limb, and was off for my office. It is strange how one will forget one’s dignity and risk one’s life for things and people that don’t pay. One should never lose one’s patience, or one’s equilibrium in a hurry.
At the office the young lady attendant greeted me effusively (more so, I thought, than the mere fact that I had come to keep my regular office hour really called for), and wanted to know if I had had a pleasant trip.
“The time of my life; the very loveliest time of my life,” I said, and locked myself in my private room.
On account of having returned later than I had announced, I had an unusually large number of patients that morning. Each one delayed me at the end of the consultation by politely and kindly asking the question. Evidently they considered it a sort of tail or tale to the consultation, as a dessert belongs to a dinner or a wag to a dog.
Before I had gotten through with my patients Doctor Isham caught a glimpse of me as I ushered one of them out, and rushed into me and shook my hand with the spontaneous cordiality of true politeness. He said that he did not wish to take up my time while patients were waiting, but just wanted to ask me if I had had a pleasant trip.