"If I do—though of course I can only infer how such a dish feels—it is really of no consequence, I assure you."
"Don't you fool yourself! It makes a lot of consequence to you. Ask a doctor, if you don't believe me. But I got your dia'nosis now, same as a medical man that's right. I know what's your trouble, Doc, just like you had told me yourself."
"Ah? What, Mr. Klinker?"
"Exercise."
"You mean lack of exercise?"
"I mean," said Klinker, "that you're fadin' out fast for the need of it."
The two men pushed on up Centre Street, where the march of home-goers was now beginning to thin out, in a moment of silence. Queed glanced up at Klinker's six feet of red beef with a flash of envy which would have been unimaginable to him so short a while ago as ten minutes. Klinker was physically competent. Nobody could insult his work and laugh at the merited retribution.
"Come by my place a minute," said Klinker. "I got something to show you there. You know the shop, o' course?"
No; Mr. Queed was obliged to admit that he did not.
"I'm manager for Stark's," said Klinker, trying not to appear boastful. "Cigars, mineral waters, and periodicals. And a great rondy-vooze for the sporting men, politicians, and rounders of the town, if I do say it. I've seen you hit by the window many's the time, only your head was so full of studies you never noticed."