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Updated: May 27, 2025
Best of all had been Buck Klinker Buck, who had made him physically, who had dragged him into contact with life over his own protests, who had given him the first editorial he ever wrote that was worth reading Buck, the first real friend he had ever had.
"I assure you that it was." "Don't see it," said Klinker. "That is not my responsibility, in any sense." Thus Doctor Queed, sitting stiffly on his hard little chair, and gazing with annoyance at Klinker through the iron bars at the foot of the bed. "Blest if I pipe," said Buck, and scratched his head. "I cannot both tell the stories and furnish the brains to appreciate them.
We flew over the smooth klinker road at such a rate that, had it been England, a policeman would have sprung from every bush. Nobody seemed to mind here, however; and the few horses we met had the air of turning up their noses at us, despite the physical difficulty in evoking that expression on an equine profile. The country grew prettier.
But the bottle turned out to contain merely a rare unguent just obtained by Klinker from his friend Smithy, the physical instructor at the Y.M.C.A., and deemed surprisingly effective for the development of the academic bicep. At last there was blessed quiet, and he could write again.
Surface had long since died all, that is, but Klinker, who said that she had only pretended to die in order to make a fade-away with the gate receipts. For many persons believed, it seemed, that Surface, by clever juggling of his books, had managed to "hold out" a large sum of money in the enforced settlement of his affairs.
But now this institution had become indissolubly connected in Queed's mind with the case of Eva Bernheimer, whom Buck Klinker knew, Eva Bernheimer who was "in trouble" at sixteen, and had now "dropped out." A reformatory had become in his thought a living instrument to catch the Eva Bernheimers of this world, and effectually prevent them from dropping out.
Then I'll lay out a reg'lar course for you exercises for all parts of the body. Got any trunks?" Queed looked surprised. "I have one small one a steamer trunk, as it is called." Klinker explained what he meant, and the Doctor feared that his wardrobe contained no such article. "Ne'mmind. I can fit you up with a pair. Left Hand Tom's they used to be, him that died of the scarlet fever Thanksgiving.
If I was a parson, I tell you, I'd go right to Seventh and Centre next Saturday and give a talk to them blaggards on that. But He spake of ..." Klinker stopped as though he had been shot. A sudden agonized scream from downstairs jerked him off the bed and to his feet in a second solemn as at the last trump. He stared at Queed wide-eyed, his honest red face suddenly white.
"Didn't I know it! Do you know what, Doc? If you knocked out a little time for reg'lar exercise, you'd find when bedtime came, that you'd done better work than you ever did before." Queed was silent. He had the most logical mind in the world, and now at last Klinker had produced an argument that appealed to his reason. "I'll put it to you as a promise," said Klinker, eyeing him earnestly.
True, she considered these differences all in her own favor, as, for example, her far larger back pompadour, with the puffs, but you never could tell about gentlemen. "I'm surprised," she said to Mr. Klinker, "Mr. Bylash didn't go out to give her the glad hand, and welcome her into our humble coturee." Mr.
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