"It's the doctor!" she whispers.
"Say!" pipes the Kid, grabbin' a pillow. "That old guy is game, eh?"
"A fightin' fool!" I agrees.
But this time a tall, solemn-lookin' guy breezes into the room and stares at me and the Kid with the same warm friendliness that a motorcycle cop regards a boob tryin' out a new auto. I figured he was the bird I had ordered by 'phone, and hit 1000 on the guess. He leans over the Kid, prods him around a bit, and then goes over him like he had lost somethin' and thought maybe he'd find it there. Then he straightens up and grunts.
"Hmph!" he says. "This man is a nervous wreck! Completely run down—needs rest and diet. I have my car outside and can take him over to the sanitarium, if—are you a relative?"
"His manager," I explains. "How about the arm, doc?"
"Nothing!" he says. "Wrenched—that's all. Come—help him downstairs, I'll wait."
I took out a five-case note.
"What do we owe you, doc?" I asks him, hopin' for the best.
"My consultation fee is fifty dollars!" he says, without battin' an eye.