The elevator received him, and in it, as luck would have it, stood a
tall young man whom he knew quite well.
"Hello, there, Doc!"
"How do you do, Mr. Klinker?"
"Been up chinning your sporting editor, Ragsy Hurd. Trying to arrange a
mill at the Mercury between Smithy of the Y.M.C.A. and Hank McGurk, the
White Plains Cyclone."
"A mill--?"
"Scrap--boxin' match, y' know. Done up your writings for the day?"
"My newspaper writings--yes."
In the brilliant close quarters of the lift, Klinker was looking at Mr.
Queed narrowly. "Where you hittin' for now? Paynter's?"
"Yes."
"Walkin'?--That's right. I'll go with you."
As they came out into the street, Klinker said kindly: "You ain't
feelin' good, are you, Doc? You're lookin' white as a milk-shake."
"I feel reasonably well, thank you. As for color, I have never had any,
I believe."
"I don't guess, the life you lead. Got the headache, haven't you? Have
it about half the time, now don't you, hey?"
"Oh, I have a headache quite frequently, but I never pay any attention
to it."
"Well, you'd ought to. Don't you know the headache is just nature
tipping you off there's something wrong inside? I've been watching you
at the supper table for some time now.
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