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Page 42
The purchaser of the morphia wanders into the fog, and at length, finds
himself upon a little iron bridge, one of the score or more in the heart
of the city, under which the small tortuous river flows. He leans on the
rail and gasps, for here the mist has concentrated, lying like a
foot-pad to garrote such of the Three Thousand as creep that way. The
iron bridge guys rattle to the strain of his cough, a mocking phthisical
rattle, seeming to say to him: "Clickety-clack! just a little rusty
cold, sir--but not from our river. Litmus paper all along the banks and
nothing but ozone. Clacket-y-clack!"
The Memphis man at last recovers sufficiently to be aware of another
overcoated man ten feet away, leaning on the rail, and just coming out
of a paroxysm. There is a freemasonry among the Three Thousand that does
away with formalities and introductions. A cough is your card; a
hemorrhage a letter of credit. The Memphis man, being nearer recovered,
speaks first.
"Goodall. Memphis--pulmonary tuberculosis--guess last stages." The
Three Thousand economize on words. Words are breath and they need breath
to write checks for the doctors.
"Hurd," gasps the other. "Hurd; of T'leder. T'leder, Ah-hia. Catarrhal
bronkeetis. Name's Dennis, too--doctor says. Says I'll live four weeks
if I--take care of myself. Got your walking papers yet?"
"My doctor," says Goodall of Memphis, a little boastingly, "gives me
three months."
"Oh," remarks the man from Toledo, filling up great gaps in his
conversation with wheezes, "damn the difference. What's months! Expect
to--cut mine down to one week--and die in a hack--a four wheeler, not a
cough. Be considerable moanin' of the bars when I put out to sea. I've
patronized 'em pretty freely since I struck my--present gait. Say,
Goodall of Memphis--if your doctor has set your pegs so close--why
don't you--get on a big spree and go--to the devil quick and easy--like
I'm doing?"
"A spree," says Goodall, as one who entertains a new idea, "I never did
such a thing. I was thinking of another way, but-----"
"Come on," invites the Ohioan, "and have some drinks. I've been at
it--for two days, but the inf--ernal stuff won't bite like it used to.
Goodall of Memphis, what's your respiration?"
"Twenty-four."
"Daily--temperature?"
"Hundred and four."
"You can do it in two days. It'll take me a--week. Tank up, friend
Goodall--have all the fun you can; then--off you go, in the middle of a
jag, and s-s-save trouble and expense. I'm a s-son of a gun if this
ain't a health resort--for your whiskers! A Lake Erie fog'd get lost
here in two minutes."
"You said something about a drink," says Goodall.
A few minutes later they line up at a glittering bar, and hang upon the
arm rest. The bartender, blond, heavy, well-groomed, sets out their
drinks, instantly perceiving that he serves two of the Three Thousand.
He observes that one is a middle-aged man, well-dressed, with a lined
and sunken face; the other a mere boy who is chiefly eyes and overcoat.
Disguising well the tedium begotten by many repetitions, the server of
drinks begins to chant the sanitary saga of Santone. "Rather a moist
night, gentlemen, for our town. A little fog from our river, but nothing
to hurt. Repeated Tests."
"Damn your litmus papers," gasps Toledo--"without any--personal offense
intended."
"We've beard of 'em before. Let 'em turn red, white and blue. What we
want is a repeated test of that--whiskey. Come again. I paid for the
last round, Goodall of Memphis."
The bottle oscillates from one to the other, continues to do so, and is
not removed from the counter. The bartender sees two emaciated invalids
dispose of enough Kentucky Belle to floor a dozen cowboys, without
displaying any emotion save a sad and contemplative interest in the
peregrinations of the bottle. So he is moved to manifest a solicitude as
to the consequences.
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