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The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. The flies fell upon his bald pate. "Darn the flies," he said. "What is it, John?" "My uncle wants you to come to Westways to-morrow and doctor old Josiah's rheumatism." "I'll come." "He wants you to look after Peter Lamb. He's been drinking again." "What! that whisky-rotted scamp. It's pure waste of time.
Schwirtz's barbered, unexercised, coffee-soaked, tobacco-filled, whisky-rotted, fattily degenerated city body shone through his red-veined eyes. He was having a fête champêtre. He gathered berries and sang all that he remembered of "Nut Brown Ale," and chased a cow and pantingly stopped under a tree and smoked a cigar as though he enjoyed it. In his simple pleasure Una was glad.
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