I had just made my rounds of the wards for the last time, that June
evening, fifteen years ago, when Murchison, my chief, came to me with
the open letter in his hand.
"Here's the very chance to suit you, Haverill," he said. "Read that!
A chap named Lennox, in Pennsylvania, wants a substitute for three
months. Small country practice--no work of any account, I
imagine--and a good holiday thrown in. Just reached me tonight, by
chance."
I had finished my term as _interne_, and was leaving the hospital the
next day. The whole summer was before me, for after three years of
heavy work I owed myself one good vacation before settling to the
task of building up a private practice, and I was glad enough of the
chance to turn it to advantage. Every dollar I had saved I had put
aside for the future struggle, and Murchison knew it. How to take a
three months' vacation on next to nothing was no easy problem, and
only such an opportunity as this, for which I had been searching
vainly for weeks past, could solve it.