A bundle of clothes was slipped in through the door. Burton opened them out and saw at a glance that they were not his. The suit, although of no better quality, was dry and pressed, and there were clean shirt, underwear and hose. Even a clean collar and tie had not been overlooked.
“These are not my clothes,” he called. “You have made a mistake.”
“They are what the doctor ordered,” came the answer, with a laugh, “and you put them right on, or stay where you are.”
There was nothing for it but to obey, and in a few minutes Burton, well and dryly clad, was back in the consultation room, expostulating with the doctor.
“Sit right down here,” said the doctor, disregarding his protestations. “Do you know what is the matter with you?”
“No,” said the young man, in surprise.
“You have eczema!”
“Eczema! Nonsense, doctor. I am quite well, physically.”
“Now look here, young man, this is my case, and if I say you have eczema you have eczema, and you have it bad. So bad I’ll have to send you to a town I know in the far West for treatment.”
“Doctor! I don’t understand you, but even if I had eczema, or any such trouble, why should I go to the far West for treatment? Are there specialists there?”