One of the bright spots of that long hot summer was McWhirter. We
had graduated together in June, and in October he was to enter a
hospital in Buffalo as a resident. But he was as indigent as I,
and from June to October is four months.

"Four months," he said to me. "Even at two meals a day, boy, that's
something over two hundred and forty. And I can eat four times a
day, without a struggle! Wouldn't you think one of these
overworked-for-the-good-of-humanity dubs would take a vacation and
give me a chance to hold down his practice?"

Nothing of the sort developing, McWhirter went into a drug-store,
and managed to pull through the summer with unimpaired cheerfulness,
confiding to me that he secured his luncheons free at the soda
counter. He came frequently to see me, bringing always a pocketful
of chewing gum, which he assured me was excellent to allay the
gnawings of hunger, and later, as my condition warranted it, small
bags of gum-drops and other pharmacy confections.

McWhirter it was who got me my berth on the Ella. It must have been
about the 20th of July, for the Ella sailed on the 28th. I was
strong enough to leave the hospital, but not yet physically able for
any prolonged exertion. McWhirter, who was short and stout, had been
alternately flirting with the nurse, as she moved in and out
preparing my room for the night, and sizing me up through narrowed
eyes.

"No," he said, evidently following a private line of thought; "you
don't belong behind a counter, Leslie. I'm darned if I think you
belong in the medical profession, either. The British army'd suit