Another week went by before John was free to go back. The day before his return he received a letter, addressed in a huge, sprawling hand:  
I seen him. I cursed him.
 
Hugh Tomlinson.
 
Simeon made no reference to the visit or the curse, and John waited, wondering a little whether it might be possible, even now, to undo the consequences of the old man’s folly.
 
That there was any connection between Simeon’s growing weakness and the old Scotchman’s visit did not occur to him. There were difficulties enough in the office to account for it without going outside. As the days went by and he watched the worn face, he grew more anxious. A look haunted the eyes—something almost crafty—they gazed at the simplest thing as if unseen terror lurked in it; and he started at any sudden noise as one pursued.... When John, leaning across the desk, pushed a book to the floor, he leaped to his feet, his hand upraised to strike, his lip drawn back from his teeth in quick rage.
 
That night John made a midnight journey, traveling all night and coming back at dawn. He had been to consult Dr. Blake, the great specialist, laying the case before him—withholding only the name of the man whose health was in question.
 
The physician had listened, his head a little bent, his eyes looking out as if seeing the man whom John described. “It’s the same story—I hear it every day,” he said. “I call it Ameri-canitis—It does n’t make much difference what you call it.... He must stop work—at once.”
 
“He won’t do it,” said John as promptly.
 
The physician looked at him keenly. “I suppose not—one of the symptoms. You have influence with him—?”
 
John shook his head slowly. “Not enough for that. I might get him to do other things, perhaps.”
 
The physician nodded.
 
“He would take medicine?”
 
John smiled at the picture.
 
“Perhaps.” He waited a little. “I ’m afraid he ’s losing his mind,” he said. “That’s really what I want to know—I don’t dare let him go on.”
 
The physician assented. “If I could see him ten minutes, I could tell, perhaps—more. But not in the dark, like this. You ask too much,” he said with a smile.
 
John gave a quick sigh. “He will never come to you,” he said.
 
The physician had drawn a paper toward him and was writing on it. “I can give certain general directions. If they don’t help, he must come.”
 
John waited while the pen scratched on. “These baths,” said the physician, “are good. They may help.”
 
John’s eyes grew dubious—a little wide with anxiety.
 
“These other things,” went on the physician, “are for your discretion. He ’s probably under-nourished. Raw eggs will give him what he needs—tax him least.”
 
“How many?” asked John.
 
“All you can get into him.”
 
The young man’s eyes grew larger—at the way before him....
 
“He does n’t half breathe, I suppose?”
 
“I—I don’t know,” said John.
 
“Watch him. Take him in hand. He must breathe deep—all the time, night and day. Here, I will show you.” He put his hand on the young man’s chest. “Go on—I ’ll tell you when to stop—” He held the hand in place a few minutes, then he withdrew it with a smile. “Tell him to breathe like that,” he said quietly. “He ’ll get well then.”
 
“Don’t everybody breathe that way?” asked the youth helplessly.
 
The physician laughed out. “If they did, they would n’t be nervous wrecks.” He handed him the list of instructions. “He must be spared any nervous worry, of course. That is the most important of all. Good-by. If he gets unmanageable, send him to me.”
 
“I wish I could,” said John with a little smile that was half a frown. He was not appalled at the details of nursing thrust upon him. He had cared for his mother too long and skilfully to be worried by these. But Simeon—yielding gracefully to being dieted—told what to eat and how to breathe and little things like that—!
 
During the home journey he devoted himself to planning ambushes for Simeon’s obstinacy; and when, after a vigorous bath, he arrived at the office, he was equipped with a dozen “strictly fresh” eggs in a paper bag; a small egg-beater in one pocket and a flask of brandy in the other. This last was a little addition of John’s own—prompted by wisdom, and a knowledge of Simeon. He put the eggs carefully on a high shelf. It would not do to rouse untimely prejudice against them by untoward accidents. The egg-beater and brandy he concealed skilfully behind a row of ledgers. When Simeon entered a little later, irritable and suspicious, there was no sign that the office was to be turned into a kind of fresh air hospital.
 
The windows were open and a little breeze came in. John, refreshed by his bath, was hard at work, the broad, phlegmatic back a kind of huge mountain of strength. The little man threw himself into his chair with a grunt. He would rest more looking at that back than he could in a bed all night, tossing and turning through the hours.
 
Schemes had haunted him—visions for the road—New tracks to be run—new regulations. Investments along the route, a little here and a little there, not for the corporation, but to build up the country—capital to help out feeble enterprises. And athwart the visions ............