And he never quite lost that idea. Indeed, he developed a faith in
Tonico-Therapy which no one--not even Minnie or Doctor Peters,
suspected. He studied the course diligently, trying his utmost to
understand and assimilate the farrago of nonsense in the pamphlets. He
was too ignorant of physiology and chemistry to detect some of the
grossest blunders, and he really fancied he was mastering a sort of
profession.
At the end of the ten weeks he received a diploma and a great deal of
congratulation and good advice from the “Dean,” a white-haired old
reprobate with a perpetual grin; and went home to Minnie, a full-fledged
“Professor of Tonico-Therapy.” The “Dean” had suggested that he use
“Professor” instead of “Doctor.”
Minnie was wild with delight; she considered their fortune made. She had
had a sign printed for him “_Lionel Naylor--Professor of
Tonico-Therapy_,” and it was displayed prominently in the sitting-room
window. She also insisted upon an advertisement in one of the local
papers, an advertisement modelled upon others she had read and no doubt
admired, and which shocked Lionel, yet to which he could offer no
reasonable objection. “_If doctors have not helped you_,” it ran, “_why
not try the Newer Way--Tonico-Therapy? Professor Lionel Naylor will see
clients between 10 and 12 and between 3 and 5. Also by appointment._”
It would be difficult to find words for Lionel’s terror and distress. He
showed nothing of it, except that he was quite unable to eat, but he
sat, professionally concealed within the house, sick with dread at the
idea of a patient’s coming. Minnie had arranged the room to look as
office-like as she could; she had put a big table in the centre of it,
with a big chair for the professor and other chairs ranged about the
walls; there was a book-case containing second-hand medical
books--imposing though not at all consistent with the theory Lionel was
to maintain; even books on surgery, which was so bitterly denounced in
the Tonico-Therapy pamphlets under the name of “going under the knife.”
He was devoutly thankful that his “system” required practically no
examining; he had simply to record and classify the symptoms as told
him, and then retire somewhere to consult his hand-book of
Tonico-Therapy, which would tell him what the disease was and what the
remedy. He hoped--he even went so far as to pray--that the patients
would all be men.
On the day after the advertisement appeared, his first patient came.
From the window he saw her mounting the steps, and he had a sort of
paroxysm of fright. He wanted to hide. But Minnie had let her in, and
there she was knocking at the door. She was a stout woman of forty or
so, terribly in earnest. She sat down heavily, with a sigh, and began to
describe, with great wealth of detail, the “torments” she endured with a
“sick stomach.” Her symptoms were extraordinarily complicated and
diverse; she enumerated all the articles she “dassen’t touch,” and gave
another list of dubious ones, which sometimes were harmless and again
would be “rank poison.”
“Like lead, those last sweet potatoes lay,” she told him mournfully,
“right _here_. Not a wink of sleep did I get that night. Just groaning
and moaning.”
Lionel listened in the proper attitude of dignified concern; he really
felt sorry for the poor thing. And so afraid he couldn’t help her.
Still, he said reassuringly:
“Wait here a moment please, while I go into the laboratory. I’ll prepare
something that will relieve you.”
(This is what he had planned to say, in order to give himself a chance
to consult his “handbook.”)
Minnie was in the dining-room when he entered.
“Oh, Lionel,” she whispered, excitedly, “does she----”
“Keep quiet!” he said, very rudely, and began copying the proper
prescription on his little pad.
“I find I’ve run out of one of my drugs,” he told his patient, “but
here is a prescription. If you’ll have this made up and take a
teaspoonful three times a day, it will....”
“When shall I come again?”
“Oh, er--next week!”
She got up with another sigh, and straightened her hat.
“What’s your fee, doctor?” she asked.
He turned scarlet; the idea of taking money from this poor vulgar,
suffering soul disgusted him, shamed him. And suppose he weren’t helping
her at all?
“Two dollars,” he muttered.
She laid a limp bill on the table, and went out.