"He will not know you are there. He will be laughing or crying or making love to the nurse, maybe using a little strong language on the side, and it will be no pleasure to him to have a witness, and no pleasure to you—and you will be a pleasure to me, so that settles it. Come along, while you have the chance, for I shall not have time to bother with you after to-day."
And he crowded them into his small car and carried them off to inspect the "awfully un-Christian patient," who looked at them sharply when the doctor presented them.
"If he told you I am an infidel, he is a liar," said the old man, looking suspiciously at the doctor's placid face. "I was the treasurer of a church—"
"Yes, he was," said the doctor, sniffing. "He was treasurer of a church for three years, and now he is a millionaire. Draw your own conclusions."
"I have been a church-member all my life."
"Yes, he has," snorted the doctor. "To the everlasting disgrace of the church, I must admit it."
"I have contributed—"
"You have contributed to the unhappiness of more poor people than anybody else in Chicago, and you know it," said the doctor curtly.
"If you weren't the best doctor in town I would discharge you."