HIS MOTTO
LOTTIE BURRELL DIXON
"But I can't leave my business affairs and go off on a fishing trip now."
The friend and specialist who had tricked John Durmont into a confession of physical bankruptcy, and made him submit to an examination in spite of himself, now sat back with an "I wash my hands of you" gesture.
"Very well, you can either go to Maine, now, at once, or you'll go to—well, as I'm only your spiritual adviser, my prognostications as to your ultimate destination would probably have very little weight with you."
"Oh, well, if you are so sure, I suppose I can cut loose now, if it comes to a choice like that."
The doctor smiled his satisfaction. "So you prefer to bear the ills of New York than to fly to others you know not of, eh?"
"Oh, have a little mercy on Shakespeare, at least. I'll go."
And thus it was that a week later found Durmont as deep in the Maine woods as he could get and still be within reach of a telegraph wire. And much to his surprise he found he liked it.
As he lay stretched at full length on the soft turf, the breath of the pines filled his lungs, the lure of the lake made him eager to get to his fishing tackle, and he admitted to himself that a man needed just such a holiday as this in order to keep his mental and physical balance.