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