me, Red. It sounds
more like 'can.'"

Red Pepper Burns held out his hand. His big; warm fingers closed hard
over the thin; cold ones which met them. Then the two men, without more
words, went away down the hill. From this hour Arthur Chester afterward
dated the beginning of the end of the fight.

CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH HE PRESCRIBES FOR HIMSELF

"Red," observed James Macauley, junior, "this place of yours looks like
a drunkard's home."

He glanced around him as he spoke. The criticism certainly found
justification in every corner. No more neglected office could have been
discovered belonging to any practitioner within an area of many miles.

"I suppose it does," rejoined Burns from the depths of a big, dusty
leather chair where he sat stretched in an attitude expressing extreme
fatigue. "But I don't care a hang."

Macauley looked at him. His eyes were closed. His arms lay upon the
chair arms, relaxed and limp. For the first time his friend observed
what might have been noted by a critical eye on any day during the last
fortnight. The lines on the ordinarily strong, health-tinted face were
deeper than he had ever seen them; the cheeks were thinner; there were
even shadows under the thick eyelashes which outlined the lids of the
closed eyes.

"Look here, old man," Macauley cried, sudden conviction seizing him,
"you're working altogether too hard. This miserable city epidemic has
done you out. I've thought all the time you were trying to cover too
much ground."

"Ground's had to be covered," replied the other briefly, without opening
his eyes.

"Have the other fellows worked as hard as you?"

"Harder."

"I don't believe it. They're all city men. You've done all this city
work and looked after your own patients here, too, to say nothing of
living in both places at once. With your housekeeper gone home to her
sick folks, and Miss Mathewson off on one of your cases--no wonder this
place looks the way it does."

"It doesn't matter. Cut it out about the place. I'm going back in ten
minutes."

"You are! Not going to get to bed?"

"Don't know. I might snatch a nap now if you'd quit talking."

Macauley closed his mouth. Presently he got up and stole out of the
room. He was back again in a trice, a flask in one hand, a soda siphon
in the other, and a small glass balanced on his thumb. When Burns, at
the sound of a clock ticking somewhere, rubbed his eyes with his fists
striking in and reluctantly opened