"Scrap—boxin' match, y' know. Done up your writings for the day?"
"My newspaper writings—yes."
In the brilliant close quarters of the lift, Klinker was looking at Mr. Queed narrowly. "Where you hittin' for now? Paynter's?"
"Yes."
"Walkin'?—That's right. I'll go with you."
As they came out into the street, Klinker said kindly: "You ain't feelin' good, are you, Doc? You're lookin' white as a milk-shake."
"I feel reasonably well, thank you. As for color, I have never had any, I believe."
"I don't guess, the life you lead. Got the headache, haven't you? Have it about half the time, now don't you, hey?"
"Oh, I have a headache quite frequently, but I never pay any attention to it."
"Well, you'd ought to. Don't you know the headache is just nature tipping you off there's something wrong inside? I've been watching you at the supper table for some time now. That pallor you got ain't natural pallor. You're pasty, that's right. I'll bet segars you wake up three mornings out of four feelin' like a dish of stewed prunes."