“I’ve had occasion lately,” he continued, “to observe the powerful tonic effect of clothes.  A woman patient told me once that the moral support, afforded by a well-fitting corset was inconceivable to the mind of a mere man.  She said that a corset is to a woman what a hat is to a man—­ it prepares for any emergency, enables one to meet life on equal terms, and even to face a rebellious cook or janitor with ’that repose which marks the caste of Vere de Vere.’”

“I’ve often wondered,” returned Allison, “why I felt so much—­well, so much more adequate with my hat on.”

“Clear case of inherited instincts.  The wild dog used to make himself a smooth bed in the rushes of long grass by turning around several times upon the selected spot.  Consequently, the modern dog has to do the same stunt before he can go to sleep.  The hat is a modification of the helmet, which always had to be worn outside the house, in the days when hold-ups and murders were even more frequent than now, and the desire for a walking-stick comes from the old fashion of carrying a spear or a sword.  If a man took off his helmet, it was equivalent to saying:  ’In the presence of my friend, I am safe.’  When he takes off his hat to a lady now, he merely means:  ‘You’re not a voter.’  You’ll notice that in any gathering of men, helmets are still worn.”

So he chattered, with apparent unconcern, but, none the less, he was keenly watching his patient.  With tact that would have done credit to a diplomat, he kept the conversation in agreeable channels.  By noon, Allison had his clothes on, the coat being pinned under the left arm with two safety pins that did not show, and was out upon an upper veranda.

Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his chair.  Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.

“I believe you’re a miracle-worker,” he said.  “Two days ago, I was in bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope.  Now I’ve got all three.”

“No miracle,” replied the other modestly.  “Merely sense.”

That afternoon the Crosby twins telephoned to know whether they might call, and the nurse brought the query upstairs.  “If they’re amusing,” said the doctor, “let ’em come.”

Allison replied that the twins had been highly amusing—­until they ran “The Yellow Peril” over his left hand.  “Poor little devils,” he mused; “they’ve got something on their minds.”

“Mighty lucky for you that it wasn’t a macadamised boulevard instead of a sandy country road,” observed the doctor.  “The softness underneath has given us a doubt to work on.”

“How so?”

“It’s easier, to crush anything on a hard surface than it is on a pillow, isn’t it?”

“Of course—­I hadn’t thought of that.  If there had been more sand—­”

“I look to you to furnish that,” returned the other with a quick twist of meaning.  “You’ve got plenty of sand, if you have half a chance to show it.”