But Galusha Bangs did not rejoice, for his health had broken, like the enemy’s resistance, and the doctors told him that he was to go away at once.

“You must leave all this,” commanded the doctor; “forget it.  You must get away, get out of doors and stay out.”

For a moment Galusha was downcast.  Then he brightened.

“There is an expedition from the New York museum about to start for Syria,” he said.  “I am quite sure I would be permitted to accompany it.  I’ll write at once and—­”

“Here, here!  Wait!  You’ll do nothing of the sort.  I said forget that sort of thing.  You can’t go wandering off to dig in the desert; you might as well stay in this place and dig here.  Get away from it all.  Go where there are people.”

“But, Doctor Raymond, there are people in Syria, a great many of them, and most interesting people.  I have—­”

“No.  You are to forget Syria and Egypt and your work altogether.  Keep out of doors, meet people, exercise—­play golf, perhaps.  The main trouble with you just now is nerve weariness and lack of strength.  Eat, sleep, rest, build up.  Eat regular meals at regular times.  Go to bed at a regular hour.  I would suggest your going to some resort, either in the mountains or at the seashore.  Enjoy yourself.”

“But, doctor, I don’t enjoy myself at such places.  I am quite wretched.  Really I am.”

“Look here, you must do precisely as I tell you.  Your lungs are quite all right at present, but, as you know, they have a tendency to become all wrong with very little provocation.  I tell you to go away at once, at once.  And stay away, for a year at least.  If you don’t, my friend, you are going to die.  Is that plain?”

It was plain, certainly.  Galusha took off his spectacles and rubbed them, absently.

“Dear me! . . .  Dear me!—­ah—­ Oh, dear!” he observed.

A resort?  Galusha knew precious little about resorts; they were places he had hitherto tried to avoid.  He asked his stenographer to name a resort where one would be likely to meet—­ah—­a good many people and find—­ah—­air and—­ah—­that sort of thing.  The stenographer suggested Atlantic City.  She had no idea why he asked the question.

Galusha went to Atlantic City.  Atlantic City in August!  Two days of crowds and noise were sufficient.  A crumpled, perspiring wreck, he boarded the train bound for the mountains.  The White Mountains were his destination.  He had never visited them, but he knew them by reputation.

The White Mountains were not so bad.  The crowds at the hotels were not pleasant, but one could get away into the woods and walk, and there was an occasional old cemetery to be visited.  But as the fall season drew on the crowds grew greater.  People persisted in talking to Galusha when he did not care to be talked to.  They asked questions.  And one had to dress—­or most did dress—­for dinner.  He tired of the mountains; there were too many people there, they made him feel “queerer” than ever.