"Turn up this evening, then, at the address on this card," Sommers said to
Mrs. Ducharme, handing her his card.
He would have preferred hearing that story about Ducharme to charging old P. F. Wort with electricity. He went through the treatment with his accustomed deftness, however. As he was leaving the room, Dr. Lindsay asked him to wait.
"Mr. Porter is about to go abroad, to try the baths at Marienbad. I have advised him to take one of our doctors with him to look after his diet and comfort in travelling,—one that can continue our treatment and be companionable. It will just take the dull season. I'd like to run over myself, but my affairs—"
Lindsay completed the idea by sweeping his broad, fleshy hand over the large office desk, which was loaded with letters, reports, and documents of various kinds.
"What d'ye say, Sommers?"
"Do you think Porter would want me?" Sommers asked idly. He had seen in the paper that morning that Porter was out of town, and was going to Europe for his health. Porter had been out of town, persistently, ever since the Pullman strike had grown ugly. The duties of the directors were performed, to all intents and purposes, by an under-official, a third vice-president. Those duties at present consisted chiefly in saying from day to day: "The company has nothing to arbitrate. There is a strike; the men have a right to strike. The company doesn't interfere with the men," etc. The third vice-president could make these announcements as judiciously as the great Porter.
"I have an idea," continued Sommers, "that Porter might not want me; he has never been over-cordial."
"Nonsense!" replied the busy doctor. "Porter will take any one I advise him to. All expenses and a thousand dollars—very good pay."
"Is Porter very ill?" Sommers asked. "I thought he was in fair health, the last time I saw him."
Lindsay looked at the young doctor with a sharp, experienced glance. There was a half smile on his face as he answered soberly: