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ruining my stomach."

5
    THE USUAL ROUTINE of the day went on. Discipline at Dr. Lenz' sanitarium was strict, but never obvious. However planned one's schedule might be, it was allowed to progress with a seeming spontaneity. It was faintly reminiscent of the organized fun to which cruise passengers are subjected on board ship.
    Ten o'clock was the hour for my visit to the surgery where Dr. Stevens, pink and smiling like a substantial cherub, thumped and prodded me, looked at my tongue and eyes while he kept up a running commentary on the weather, the decline of the American stage, or other non-controversial subjects. He told me that day that we were due for more snow and that there was no longer any albumen in my urine. He asked my opinion of Katharine Cornell and went on to more intimate and personal questions to which I was able to give satisfactory answers. Finally he said that if I was satisfying the psychiatrists as well as I was him, there should be nothing to prevent my leaving them and producing plays on Broadway again within a very few weeks.
    After that, Moreno gave me my daily mental onceover. He had been with Lenz only a short time, having been imported with Stevens from the most up-to-date medical school in California. Miss Brush had assured me that he was a first-class psychiatrist and I could believe her. Although I didn't like the bright young doctor type, I rather admired the man. He had a hard matter-of-factness which does a lot to give jittery people confidence. But that particular morning he was different. I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong, but I felt he was on edge, jumpy.
    When he was through with me, Miss Brush rounded us all up for our morning walk. It was a cold March there was deep snow on the ground, so we were wrapped up with maternal care. I noticed that Miss Brush herself tied old Laribee's scarf and put on his rubbers. She gave him one of those quick, intimate smiles of hers, and I saw a jealous look come into young Bill Trent's eyes. He worshipped Miss Brush. But then we all did. I guess she was part of our cure.
    At length we started out, ten or eleven grown men, walking two by two, in a rather uncertain imitation of school children. Miss Brush was ostensibly taking care of us, but my wrestler friend, Jo Fogarty, lounged along behind as though he just happened to be going in the same direction.
    I was surprised and glad to see that Geddes was with us. He made no reference to his attack. I suppose he didn't even know he'd had one. We strolled along together, getting quite "pally".
    We all behaved pretty well until we had left the sanitarium behind and were walking cross country over some of the hundred or so acres which belonged to the institution.
    Old Laribee had been very quiet, striding along with a blue scarf fluffed around his puffy red face. Suddenly he stopped in the snow, and that look I had seen the night before came into his eyes.
    The others stopped, too, gazing at him with idle curiosity. He had gripped Miss Brush's arm and was saying hoarsely:
    "We've got to go back."
    We gathered around him, all except Billy Trent, who was throwing snowballs vigorously. Jo Fogarty came up and was hovering at Miss Brush's elbow.
    "We've got to go back, Miss Brush." Laribee's lower lip was trembling distractedly. "I've just had a warning. Steel's going to drop ten points to-day. If I don't get to a telephone and put in some selling orders, I shall be ruined —ruined."
    Miss Brush tried to calm him, but it was no use. He was sure he had heard his broker, he said, heard his voice in his ear. He pleaded, argued with a kind of desperate doggedness, as though to assure himself rather than her of his sanity.
    Miss Brush showed a certain amount of brisk sympathy, but she said she couldn't have the walk broken up, not even if the whole of Wall Street were collapsing. I thought she was being rather tough with him. But he seemed to like it. The strained, wild expression left his face, giving way to