Stalton’s brow puckered up thoughtfully.
“I wonder if there’s any chance of me having that lot,” he said slowly. “I certainly haven’t got any more pep than a Ford car leaking in oil in three cylinders. Here I am, Mauney, only forty-two years old; I shouldn’t be like this. I can’t do much more work than a sundial on a rainy day, without getting all in, down and out. I’ve been to about a hundred doctors and only two ever agreed on what ails me.”
“What seems to be the trouble, Fred?”
“All I know is how I feel,” replied Stalton. “Some say it’s hyperacidity. Some call it auto-intoxication. One bird claimed I had an ulcer of the stomach. About ten of ’em laid all the blame on my teeth. Others said I had weakness of the nerve centres. I don’t believe any of them ever really hit it yet. As soon as I collect enough dust I’m going to call and see Adamson.”
“Is he good?” asked Mauney, but casually interested in Stalton’s recital of his bodily woes.
“Good? I guess he is! That chap, they say, never makes a mistake. He’s a professor in the Medical School. You have to make an appointment four weeks in advance to see him at all. He charges about a hundred a minute, but, from what I hear, he’s worth it. I’d never begrudge it to him. I haven’t been able to hold down a steady job for five years.”
Mauney had observed Stalton’s manner of life. Gertrude allowed him to play on an easy financial margin. He made what money he got by speculating on theatre tickets, playing the horses at Riverton Park, and from his rare, but always successful, indulgence in big poker games down-town. When he was in pocket he paid his board cheerfully and bought new clothes and quantities of cigarettes. When he was financially embarrassed he helped Gertrude with the housework and made his own cigarettes. He was the soul of good-heartedness. He would lend money to any of his friends if he had it. If not, he would thank the intending borrower for the compliment of being asked. His popularity at 73 Franklyn Street always remained at flood-tide—he was so cheerful about his own infirmities and so eager to listen to the troubles of others. Mauney found him as restful as other men who lived purposeless lives.
Late one night Mauney was awakened by the sound of his bedroom door opening. In the light which entered from the hall he beheld Stalton standing in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette. He was unusually pale.
“I didn’t want to disturb, Max,” he said, “but I’m suffering the tortures of the damned with this stomach of mine. I wonder if you would mind going downstairs and calling up Dr. Adamson. I’ve got to see that bird, sooner or later, and I’d like to have him see me when this real attack is on.”
Mauney agreed, sprang out of bed, and feeling that Stalton was actually in great pain, persuaded him to take his own bed. After helping him to get into it, he covered him quickly with the sheets and descended to the telephone. After giving the number he waited for fully a minute before receiving a reply.