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Updated: May 27, 2025
To a white-coated boy who lounged upon the fount, Klinker spoke winged words, and the next moment Queed found himself drinking a foaming, tingling, hair-trigger concoction under orders to put it all down at a gulp. They were seated upon a bench of oak and leather upholstery, with an enormous mirror reproducing their back views to all who cared to see.
Queed was obliged to admit that he did not. "I'm manager for Stark's," said Klinker, trying not to appear boastful. "Cigars, mineral waters, and periodicals. And a great rondy-vooze for the sporting men, politicians, and rounders of the town, if I do say it. I've seen you hit by the window many's the time, only your head was so full of studies you never noticed."
Queed's appointment as editorial writer on the Post. With the others the exalted world he moved in was so remote from theirs that no surprises were possible there, and if informed that the little Doctor had been elected president of Harvard University, it would have seemed all in the day's work to William Klinker.
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?
But I will say that the general problem is one of the most difficult with which social science has to deal." "I know what had ought to be done. The blaggards ought to be shot. Damn every last one of them, I say." Klinker conversed in his anger something like the ladies of Billingsgate, but Queed did not notice this.
"God forgive me for talkin' so loud.... I'd ought to have known...." "What is it? Who was that?" demanded Queed, startled more by Klinker's look than by that scream. But Klinker only turned and slipped softly out of the door, tipping on his toes as though somebody near at hand 4 were asleep. Queed was left bewildered, and completely at a loss.
Left Hand Tom's gone where he don't need 'em any more." "What are they? What does one do with them?" "They're your trunks. You wear 'em." "Where? On what portion, I mean?" "They're like little pants," said Klinker. The two men walked home together over the frozen streets. Queed was taciturn and depressed.
But her lashes did so glitter, and he capitulated at once; and turning instantly went heavy-hearted up the stairs. In a Country Churchyard, and afterwards; of Friends: how they take your Time while they live, and then die, upsetting your Evening's Work; and what Buck Klinker saw in the Scriptorium at 2 a.m.
Presently Klinker said another thing that his friend the little Doctor remembered for a long time. "Do you know what's the finest line in Scripture, Doc? But He spake of the temple of His body. I heard a minister get that off in a church once, in a sermon, and I don't guess I'll ever forget it. A dandy, ain't it?... Exercise and live straight. Keep your temple strong and clean.
The introduction over, Klinker sat down tenderly on the polished seat of the rowing-machine, and addressed Doctor Queed, who stood with an academic arm thrown gingerly over the horizontal bar. "There's your medicine, Doe. And if you don't take it well, it may be the long good-by for yours before the flowers bloom again." "How do you mean, Mr. Klinker there is my medicine?"
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