Lindsay waved his hand.
"We never have to 'bother' about any member of our force."
"Oh! very well. I didn't want to leave you in a hole. Perhaps I was presumptuous to suppose I was of any importance in the office."
Sommers stepped briskly to the door, while Lindsay wheeled to his desk.
Before he opened the door, he paused and called back pleasantly:
"But really I shouldn't operate on the General. Poor old man! And he hasn't much money—'the usual fee' would come hard on him."
Lindsay paid no attention to the remark. Sommers had passed from his world altogether; there would be a long, hard road for this young man in the practice of his profession in Chicago, if Dr. Lindsay, consulting surgeon at St. Isidore's, St. Martha's, the Home for Incurables, the Institute for Pulmonary Diseases, etc., could bring it about.
Sommers hastily rifled certain pigeonholes of his desk, tossing the letters into his little black bag, and seizing his hat hurried out. He stopped at the clerk's desk to leave a direction for forwarding his mail.
"Going away for a vacation?" Miss Clark queried.
"Yes, for a good long one," the young surgeon answered. As the door slammed behind him, the black-haired Miss Clark turned to the assistant stenographer with a yawn.
"He's got his travelling papers. I knew there was a fuss when I called him to the 'phone. I guess he wasn't tony enough for this office."