office-bell; I won't keep you longer, but if this 'special case' of yours
should develop any new symptoms, just let me know."
"I 'll keep you informed," rejoined the Doctor. "Better run up
there pretty soon, Johnny," he called after him.
"I think it's high time, Dick. Good-bye."
At that very moment, a symptom of another sort was
developing in Z---- Hall, Number 9, at Harvard.
Jack Sherrill and his chum were discussing the last evening's
Club theatricals. "I saw that pretty Maude Seaton in the third or
fourth row, Jack; did she come on for that,--which, of course, means
you?"
"Wish I might think so," said Jack, half in earnest, half in jest,
pulling slowly at his corn-cob pipe.
"By Omar Khayyam, Jack! you don't mean to say you 're hit, at
last!"
"Hit,--yes; but it's only a flesh-wound at present,--nothing
dangerous about it."
"She 's got the style, though, and the pull. I know a half-dozen
of the fellows got dropped on to-night's cotillion."
"Kept it for me," said Jack, quietly.
"No, really, though--" and his chum fell to thinking rather
seriously for him.
Just then came the morning's mail,--notes, letters, special
delivery stamps, all the social accessories a popular Harvard man
knows so well. Jack looked over his carelessly,--invitations to dinner,
to theatre parties, "private views," golf parties, etc. He pushed them
aside, showing little interest. He, like his Cousin Hazel, was used to
it.