But he did not go on to talk about her; that would have
been brutal indeed in Coolidge's unhappy circumstances.
At the train Coolidge turned suddenly to his physician. "You haven't
given me anything for my sleeplessness," he said.
"Think you must have a prescription?" Burns inquired, getting out his
blank and pen.
"It will take some time for your advice to work out, if it ever does,"
Coolidge said. "Meanwhile, the more good sleep I get the fitter I shall
be for the effort."
"True enough. All right, you shall have the prescription."
Burns wrote rapidly, resting the small leather-bound book on his knee,
his foot on an iron rail of the fence which kept passengers from
crowding. He read over what he had written, his face sober, his eyes
intent. He scrawled a nearly indecipherable "_Burns_" at the bottom,
folded the slip and handed it to his friend. "Put it away till you're
ready to get it filled," he advised.
The two shook hands, gripping tightly and looking straight into each
other's eyes.
"Thank you, Red, for it all," said Gardner Coolidge. "There have been
minutes when I felt differently, but I understand you better now. And I
see why your waiting room is full of patients even on a stormy day."
"No, you don't," denied Red Pepper Burns stoutly. "If you saw me take
their heads off you'd wonder that they ever came again. Plenty of them
don't--and I don't blame them--when I've cooled off."
Coolidge smiled.
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