"Oh, I ain't afraid of him. I wan't born yesterday," was her contemptuous reply.
"All the same, you be careful what you say to him, Gert," Vixley cautioned, as he went out into the hall.
He reappeared with the doctor. Madam Spoll smiled sweetly.
Doctor Masterson greeted her with a sour expression, and shook hands limply. He sat down deliberately, and, pulling out a soiled silk handkerchief, wiped his creased forehead and his bald pate. Then he cleaned his iron-bowed spectacles, blinking his red eyes as he breathed on the lenses.
Vixley, from the organ bench, watched him shrewdly, and offered him a cigar.
"No, thanks, I don't smoke," said the doctor peevishly.
"Since when?" Vixley asked in surprise.
"Since you give me that last 'Flor de Chinatown,' or whatever it was. When I want to smoke rag carpets again I'll try another." He showed his black teeth in a vicious grin.
Vixley tittered. "What's wrong, Doc? Looks like you had a grouch. Been takin' too much of Hasandoka's medicine lately? You didn't come round here to look a gift-horse in the mouth, did you?"
The doctor cleared his throat and pulled down his plaid waistcoat. "No, I didn't. But I didn't come round for to give you any hot air, neither! I'm glad I struck Madam Spoll here, for what I got to say may interest her, too."