CHAPTER XXV
IN WHICH WALLINGFORD ORGANIZES THE DOCTOR
QUAGG PEERLESS SCIATACATA COMPANY
At the Benson House J. Rufus found Doctor Quagg with a leg propped up on a chair, and himself in a state of profound profanity.
“What’s the matter, Doc?” asked Wallingford.
“Sciatic rheumatism!” howled the martyr. “It’s gettin’ worse every year. Every time I go on the street for a night I know I’m goin’ to suffer. That’s why I keep it up so late and spiel myself hoarse in the neck. I jumped into town just yesterday and got a reader from these city hall pirates. They charged me twenty-five iron men for my license for the week. I go out and make one pitch, and that’s all I get for my twenty-five.”
“Sciatic rheumatism’s a tough dose,” commiserated Wallingford. “Why don’t you take five or six bottles of the Peerless Sciatacata?”
The answer to this was a storm of fervid expletives which needed no diagram. Wallingford, chuckling, sat down and gloated over the doctor’s misery, lighting a big, fat cigar to gloat at better ease. He offered a cigar to Quagg.
“I daresn’t smoke,” swore that invalid.
“And I suppose you daresn’t drink, either,” observed Wallingford. “Well, that doesn’t stop me, you know.”
Wearily the doctor indicated a push-button.