Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barking excitedly. It was broad daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard the brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in the lock. Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open, and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared at him and he stared at Donaldson. Then, striding over the dog, who yelped in protest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man who faced him. "Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?" Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of a man in perfect health. "Can't you speak?" he demanded. "What's the matter with you?" "I 'm glad to see you," answered Donaldson. "But what are you doing here in this condition? Are you sick?" "No, I 'm not sick. I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep." "You look as though you had been sleeping there a month. Sit down, man. You have a fever." "There 's your dog," said Donaldson. Barstow turned. The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, was stretching his neck towards his master's hand. "Hello, pup," he greeted him. "Did the janitor use you all right?" He shook him off. Donaldson sat down. Barstow stood in front of him a moment and then reached to feel his pulse. It was normal. "I 'm not sick, I tell you," said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I was just all in. I came up here to see if you were back and slumped down on the couch. Then I fell asleep. There 's your dog behind you." "What of it?" demanded Barstow. "Why--he looks glad to see you." "What of that?" "Nothing." Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder. "Have you been drinking?" he asked. "Drinking? No, but I've a thirst a mile long. Any water around here?" Barstow went to the closet and came back with a graduating glass full of lukewarm water. Donaldson swallowed it in a couple of gulps. "Lord, that's good!" Barstow again bent a perplexed gaze upon him. "You have n't been fooling with any sort of dope, Peter?" "No." "This is straight?" "Yes, that's straight," answered Donaldson impatiently. "I tell you that there is n't anything wrong with me except that I 'm fagged out." "You did n't take my advice. You ought to have gone away. Why did n't you?" "I 've been too busy. There's your dog." Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of his fingers. "Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd known about the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed--a week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing over your face. That's what you want to do--get out under the blue sky and soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,--why the devil don't you take a week off and do it?" "Perhaps I will."