re, but had changed to his
own again and packed his bag before dinner.

We camped in the wing chairs and he lighted his cigar. Then, to my
astonishment, he rose and shut the door.

"What did you do that for?" I asked.

He came back to his chair.

"Because I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle," he replied, "and
I don't want anyone, not even a Cape Cod cousin, butting in. Kent, I
told you that before I went I was going to prescribe for you, didn't I?
Well, I'm going to do it now. Are you ready for the prescription?"

"I have been ready for it for some time," I retorted. "I began to think
you had forgotten it altogether."

"I hadn't. But I wanted it to be the last word you should hear from me
and I didn't want to give you time to think up a lot of fool objections
to spring on me before I left. Look here, I'm your doctor now; do you
understand? You called me in as a specialist and what I say goes. Is
that understood?"

"I hear you."

"You've got to do more than hear me. You've got to do what I tell you.
I know what ails you. You've buried yourself in the mud down here. Wake
up, you clam! Come out of your shell. Stir around. Stop thinking about
yourself and think of something worth while."

"Dear! dear! hark to the voice of the oracle. And what is the something
worth while I am to think about; you?"

"Yes, by George! me! Me and the dear public! Here are thirty-five
thousand seekers after the--the higher literature, panting open-mouthed
for another Knowles classic. And you sit back here and cover yourself
with sand and seaweed and say you won't give it to them."

"You're wrong. I say I can't."

"You will, though."

"I won't. You can bet high on that."

"You will, and I'll bet higher. YOU write no more stories! You! Why,
confound you, you couldn't help it if you tried. You needn't write
another 'Black Brig' unless you want to. You needn't--you mustn't write
anything UNTIL you want to. But, by George! you'll get up and open your
eyes and stir around, and keep stirring until the time comes when you've
found something or someone you DO want to write about. THEN you'll
write; you will, for I know you. It may turn out to be what you call
'slush,' or it may not, but you'll write it, mark my words."

He was serious now, serious enough even to suit me. But what he had said
did not suit me.

"Don't talk nonsense, Jim," I said. "Don't you suppose I have thought--"

"Thought! that's just it; you do nothing bu