"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered with bulging tumors.
"Number?" the doctor inquires.
"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco.
"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says hoarsely.
"Salts. Return to work. Next!"
"A one-twenty-six!"
A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully from the line.
"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid—"
"What's the trouble?"
"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I—"