Doctor Wilcox was sensitive about this book but could not get along without it. It was bound in limp leather and fitted his coat pocket and he had bought it at the advice of one of his professors who had said, “Wilcox, you have no business being a physician and I have done everything in my power to prevent you from being certified as one. Since you are now a member of this learned profession I advise you, in the name of humanity, to obtain a copy of The Young Doctor’s Friend and Guide, and use it. Doctor Wilcox. Learn to use it.”
Doctor Wilcox had said nothing but he had bought the leather-bound guide that same day.
“Well, Horace,” Doc Fischer said as I came in the receiving room which smelt of cigarettes, iodoform, carbolic and an overheated radiator.
“Gentlemen,” I said.
“What news along the rialto?” Doc Fischer asked. He affected a certain extravagance of speech which seemed to me to be of the utmost elegance.
“The free turkey at Woolf’s,” I answered.
“You partook?”
“Copiously.”
“Many of the confrères present?”
“All of them. The whole staff.”
“Much Yuletide cheer?”
“Not much.”
“Doctor Wilcox here has partaken slightly,” Doc Fischer said. Doctor Wilcox looked up at him, then at me.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“That’s all right,” Doctor Wilcox said.
“Horace,” Doc Fischer said, “you don’t mind me calling you Horace, do you?”
“No.”
“Good old Horace. We’ve had an extremely interesting case.”
“I’ll say,” said Doctor Wilcox.
“You know the lad who was in here yesterday?”
