“What did you do that for?” I asked.
He came back to his chair.
“Because I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle,” he replied, “and I don't want anyone, not even a Cape Cod cousin, butting in. Kent, I told you that before I went I was going to prescribe for you, didn't I? Well, I'm going to do it now. Are you ready for the prescription?”
“I have been ready for it for some time,” I retorted. “I began to think you had forgotten it altogether.”
“I hadn't. But I wanted it to be the last word you should hear from me and I didn't want to give you time to think up a lot of fool objections to spring on me before I left. Look here, I'm your doctor now; do you understand? You called me in as a specialist and what I say goes. Is that understood?”
“I hear you.”
“You've got to do more than hear me. You've got to do what I tell you. I know what ails you. You've buried yourself in the mud down here. Wake up, you clam! Come out of your shell. Stir around. Stop thinking about yourself and think of something worth while.”
“Dear! dear! hark to the voice of the oracle. And what is the something worth while I am to think about; you?”
“Yes, by George! me! Me and the dear public! Here are thirty-five thousand seekers after the—the higher literature, panting open-mouthed for another Knowles classic. And you sit back here and cover yourself with sand and seaweed and say you won't give it to them.”
“You're wrong. I say I can't.”