“How’re your teeth, son?”
Ben drew back his thin lips and showed two rows of hard white grinders. At the same moment, casually, swiftly, Coker prodded him with a strong yellow finger in the solar plexis. His distended chest collapsed; he bent over, laughing, and coughed dryly. Coker turned away to his desk and picked up his cigar.
“What’s the matter, Coker?” said Ben. “What’s the idea?”
“That’s all, son. I’m through with you,” said Coker.
“Well, what about it?” said Ben nervously.
“What about what?”
“Am I all right?”
“Certainly you’re all right,” said Coker. He turned with burning match. “Who said you weren’t all right?”
Ben stared at him, scowling, with fear-bright eyes.
“Quit your kidding, Coker,” he said. “I’m three times seven, you know. Am I fit to go?”
“What’s the rush?” said Coker. “The war’s not over yet. We may get into it before long. Why not wait a bit?”
“That means I’m not fit,” said Ben. “What’s the matter with me, Coker?”
“Nothing,” said Coker carefully. “You’re a bit thin. A little run down, aren’t you, Ben? You need a little meat on those bones, son. You can’t sit on a stool at the Greasy Spoon, with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and get fat.”
“Am I all right or not, Coker?”
Coker’s long death’s-head widened in a yellow grin.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re all right, Ben. You’re one of the most all right people I know.”
Ben read the true answer in Coker’s veined and weary eyes. His own were sick with fear. But he said bitingly:
“Thanks, Coker. You’re a lot of help. I appreciate what you’ve done a lot. As a doctor, you’re a fine first baseman.”
Coker grinned. Ben left the office.
As he went out on the street he met Harry Tugman going down to the paper office.
