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Updated: June 10, 2025
Well, they was a mighty nice old couple, and the doctor done a heap of pertending fur both their sakes they wasn't nothing else to do. "How'd you come to get started at it?" he asts. Daddy Withers says he don't rightly know.
Looey brung it, the doctor never taking his eyes off'n Hank. He handed it to Hank, and he says: "A whiskey glass full three times a day, my friend, and there is a good chance for even you. I give it to you, without money and without price." "But what have I got?" asts Hank. "You have spinal meningitis," says the doctor, never batting an eye. "Will this here cure me?" says Hank.
"What kind of business are you going into?" asts the doctor. "I am going to be an undertaker," says Looey. "My aunt says this town needs the right kind of an undertaker bad." Mr. Wilcox, the undertaker that town has, is getting purty old and shaky, Looey says, and young Mr. Wilcox, his son, is too light-minded and goes at things too brisk and airy to give it the right kind of a send-off.
"That's funny," says I, out loud. "What is?" asts the perfessor. I showed him the bottle and told him how I was named after the company that made 'em. He says to look around me. They is all kinds of glassware in that room bottles and jars and queer-shaped things with crooked tails and noses and nigh every piece of glass the perfessor owns is made by that company.
"I been acrost the river into I'way," I says, "a-working at my trade, and now I'm going back to Chicago to work at it some more." "What might your trade be?" she asts, sizing me up careful; and I thinks I'll hand her one to chew on she ain't never hearn tell of before. "I'm a agnostic by trade," I says.
As he does so that hull bunch of about a dozen moves in under the rope, and some more that was going out seen it, and stopped and come back. "Perfessor," says the man with the patch over his eye to Doctor Kirby, "you say this man Ackerman is dead?" "Yes," says the doctor, eying him over, "he's dead." "How did he die?" asts the feller. "He died hard, I understand," says the doctor, careless-like.
It was just the world-old spirit that makes the veriest little weed struggle through a chink in the rock and reach upward toward the sun. "What's the matter with your hair, Lovey Mary? It looks so funny," asked a small girl, coming up the steps. "If anybody asts you, tell 'em you don't know," snapped Lovey Mary. "Well, Miss Bell says for you to come down to the office," said the other, unabashed.
You can go to sleep now." "All right, Doc. I call everybody doc who asts sech a lot o' questions." He shuffled to his cot and was soon asleep. Martine sank into his chair again. Although the conversation had been carried on in low tones, it was the voice of Nichol that he had heard.
The feller had been talking like he was a lawyer, so I asts him what crime we was charged with. But he didn't answer me. And jest then we gets in sight of that schoolhouse. It set on top of a little hill, partially in the moonlight, with a few sad-looking pine trees scattered around it, and the fence in front broke down. Even after night you could see it was a shabby-looking little place.
Martha, she had been fussing around some flower bushes with a pair of shears and gloves on. She looks up when I says that, and she sizes us all up standing by the gate, and her eyes pops open, and so does her mouth, and she is so surprised to see me she drops her shears. And she looks scared, too. "Is Miss Buckner at home?" asts Colonel Tom, lifting his hat very polite. "Miss B-B-Buckner?"
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