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Updated: June 11, 2025
"Fieldmouse an' Murphy," said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combination fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?" The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall. "Chicken Liver's got it," he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it to him." "That's what I've been waiting for, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track.
Let us say my liver's out of order." "Then my dear," said I, "you have come to the wrong place to cure it." She glanced at me wrathfully, took out a cigarette, waved away with an unfriendly gesture the briquette I had drawn from my pocket, and struck one of her own matches.
The surgeon talked, of course, learnedly about melancholic humors, and his liver's being "adust by the over-pungency of the animal spirits," and then fell back on the universal panacea of blood-letting, which he effected with fear and trembling during a short interval of prostration; encouraged by which he attempted to administer a large bolus of aloes, was knocked down for his pains, and then thought it better to leave Nature to her own work.
Chicken Liver, watching Murphy skim the rail into the home stretch, shuffled his feet in an ecstasy of exultation. "Come home, baby!" he shouted. "Come 'long home! You de bes' li'l ole hawss uh!" Something small and hard jammed violently into the pit of Chicken Liver's stomach, and his song of victory ended in an amazed grunt.
"Your liver's out of kilter," interpolated Dorothy. "No, sir!" protested young Nisbet. "Nothing is ever out of kilter inside me! If I'm nothing else, I'm blue-ribbon boy on the health question. No, it's something I want, and that I'm pretty sure I can't get." "I know perfectly well what it is," said Dorothy, "and you haven't even asked for it!" Young Nisbet looked up suddenly.
Every other day of the week, from his late breakfast-time for some hours onward, he sat at his own particular window of the Philadelphia Club and contemplated disparagingly the outside world over the top of his magazine or newspaper. At four, precisely, for his liver's sake, he rode in the Park; and for so stout a gentleman Mr. Port was an excellent horseman.
Old Man Curry was glaring at him and pressing the muzzle of a forty-five-calibre revolver against the exact spot where the third button of Chicken Liver's vest would have been had he owned such a garment. "Drop that weight pad, nigger, or I'll blow you inside out! Drop it!" Chicken Liver leaped backward with a howl of terror.
Flatulence, distress at the epigastrium, irregularity of bowels, indicated a spasmodic performance of the liver's work which showed it to be under high nervous excitement. Your mouth became dry through a cessation of the salivary discharge. Your lachrymal duct was parched, and your eye grew to have an arid look in addition to the dullness produced by opiate contraction of the pupil.
Extracting the liver, and laying it back under the lean-to on a piece of bark, Toby remarked: "We'll be eatin' the liver fried in a bit o' seal fat for breakfast. If we just eats the owl to-day, I'm thinkin' by marnin' we can stand the liver, or a piece of un. 'Tis stronger meat than the owl. After the liver's gone, we'll be tryin' the flippers." "All right," agreed Charley, happily.
Chicken Liver's out of a job. Engle and his bunch are in the clear, but they lost a lot of money on the mare. Regular old blunderbuss, ain't you? Didn't miss anybody." "Son," said Old Man Curry, removing his spectacles, "Solomon had it right. He says: 'Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein. Weaver dug one big enough to hold his entire stable.
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