And then came a solution, and inasmuch as it was brought about by the S.F.M.E., an association of a dozen charming young women in the city forming the Society for Mutual Encouragement, or Enjoyment, or Endorsement, or something else beginning with E—­I never could ascertain definitely what the E stood for—­it would seem as if the young ladies should have received greater consideration than they did when prosperity knocked at the Doctor’s door.

It seems that the Doctor attended a dance one evening in a dress coat, the quality and lack of quantity of which were a flagrant indication of a sparse, not to say extremely needy, wardrobe.  All his charm of manner, his grace in the dance, his popularity, could not blind others to the fact that he was ill-dressed, and the girls decided that something must be done, and at once.

“We might give a lawn fete for his benefit,” one of them suggested.

“He isn’t a church or a Sunday-school,” Miss Daisy Peters retorted.  “Besides, I know Jack Barkis well enough to know that he would never accept charity from any one.  We’ve got to help him professionally.”

“We might boycott all the fellows at dances,” suggested Miss Wilbur, “unless they will patronize the Doctor.  Decline to dance with them unless they present a certificate from Jack proving that they are his patients.”

“Humph!” said Miss Peters.  “That wouldn’t do any good.  They are all healthy, and even if they did go to Jack for a prescription the chances are they wouldn’t pay him.  They haven’t much more money than he has.”

“I am afraid that is true,” assented Miss Wilbur.  “Indeed, if they have any at all, I can’t say that they have given much sign of it this winter.  The Bachelors’ Cotillon fell through for lack of interest, they said, but I have my doubts on that score.  It’s my private opinion they weren’t willing or able to pay for it.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what we can do to help Jack.  If he had our combined pocket-money he’d still be poor,” sighed Miss Peters.

“He couldn’t be induced to take it unless he earned it,” said little Betsy Barbett.  “You all know that.”

“Hurrah!” cried Miss Peters, clapping her hands ecstatically; “I have it!  I have it!  I have it!  We’ll put him in the way of earning it.”

And they all put their heads together, and the following was the result: 

The next day Jack Barkis’s telephone rang more often in an hour than it had ever done before in a month, and every ring meant a call.

The first call was from Miss Daisy Peters, and he responded.

“I’m so sorry to send for you—­er—­Doctor,” she said—­she had always called him Jack before, but now he had come professionally—­“for—­for—­Rover, but the poor dog is awfully sick to-day, and Doctor Pruyn was out of town.  Do you mind?”

“Certainly not, Daisy,” he replied, a shade of disappointment on his face.  I am inclined to believe he had hoped to find old Mr. Peters at death’s door.  “If the dog is sick I can help him.  What are his symptoms?”