"Teenie! For God's sakes—quick! He's yellin' for you—"
"Coming, Mrs. Bostrum—coming—coming—coming!"
In a dawn that came up as pink as the palm of a babe, but flowed rather futilely against the tired, speckled eye of incandescent bulb dangling above the Granite Jaw's rumpled, tumbled bed of pain, a gray-looking group stood in whispered conference beside a slit of window that overlooked a narrow clapboard slit of street.
THE DOCTOR: Even with recovery, he will be on his back at least six months.
MISS HOAG: Oh, my God! Doctor!
THE DOCTOR: Has the man means?
THE BARON: Not a penny. He only came to the concession two months ago from a row with the Flying-Fish Troupe. He's in debt already to half the exhibit.
THE LANDLADY: He's two weeks in arrears. Not that I'm pestering the poor devil now, but Gawd knows I—need—
THE DOCTOR: Any relatives or friends to consult about the operation?
MISS HOAG (turning and stooping): 'Ain't you got no relations or friends, Jastrow? What was it you hollered about the aerial-wonder act? Are they friends of yours? 'Ain't you got no relatives, no—no friends, maybe, that you could stay with awhile? Sid? Who's he? 'Ain't you, Jastrow, got no relations?