In the midst of a profound silence I walked out, discovering two blocks farther on that I still held the green check calling for fifteen cents. I bought two copies of The Ladies’ Own and sent a boy back with them, thus more than repaying my indebtedness.
I determined to report at my physician’s office before returning to my apartments. In the reception-room of his suite, I first caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and was compelled to admit that I looked seedy. My hair, which had not been cut for over three months, hung down over my collar in the manner of Buffalo Bill’s, and I had a thirteen weeks’ growth of undisciplined beard upon my erstwhile smooth countenance. My linen, also, was questionable.
Finally, I was admitted, and my medical adviser gasped out something which sounded like “gosh,” but which doubtless was not, since he is a perfect gentleman.
“Dear friend,” I cried, advancing with outstretched hands, “I have come to thank you for my life!”
“Don’t mention it,” he returned, modestly. “I assure you, it is nothing worth speaking of.”
“When I left you,” I continued, “I was a physical wreck. Behold me now! I have lived next to the ground and studied the ways of those wonderful creatures whom, in our arrogant self-esteem, we call the lower animals. I have had for my friends all the wood folk—Upsidaisi, the Field Mouse, Unk Munk, the Porcupine, Ka-Ka, the Pole-Cat, Tom-Tom, the felinis simpaticus, Kitchi-Kitchi, the Red Squirrel, Hoop-La, Sing-Sing, Pitti-Bird, Chee-Wee——”
Here my medical adviser interrupted me. “Mr. Johnson-Sitdown,” he said, wearily, “as this is my busy day, it will be a kindness if you will put the remainder of that into a phonograph and have it sent. The collection of Chinese laundry checks is doubtless interesting and valuable, but I am obliged to specialise in my own line. Permit me to give you another prescription.”
He rose from his chair, handed me a bit of folded paper, and opened the door. My Summer in the wilderness had so sharpened my naturally acute senses, that I instantly perceived my friend’s wish to be alone, and accordingly, with rare tact, I bowed myself out. How I pitied the man who could not be a hermit except between patients! Nevertheless, one must have patience before one can be a hermit.
At the first drug store I handed in the prescription, and the clerk returned presently with the remark that they did not keep it. I asked him where I could find it, and he suggested a barber-shop.
Outside, I opened the prescription. It read as follows: