“So I looks ’round fur a place to git at. ’Co’se, most of de houses in dat town hez done been shot down flat. But I sees one still standin’, wid de roof on it, too—a lil’ place called a Taverne. Dat’s whut a Frenchman say, boss, w’en he means saloon.
“Natchelly, dey ain’t nobody livin’ thar no mo’. So I walks up an’ I teks hold of de doorknob an’ I’se jest fixin’ to turn de knob an’ shove open de do’ an’ step in w’en BAM! right ’long side of me one of dem German shells went off an’ tuk dat saloon right out of my hand!”
§ 98 What the Case Called For
Gabe Thompson was a person of unrelieved color, the color being black. Always, until he reached middle age he had enjoyed perfect health. Suddenly he was stricken down with what seemingly was a grievous affliction. His complexion turned the color of wet wood-ashes and he moaned with pain. His wife, in alarm, summoned a friend from a near-by cabin.
“Gabe,” said the neighbor, “You ’pears lak to me that you is powerful porely. S’posin’ I hitches up an’ goes to town fur the doctor?”
“All right,” said Gabe, “but let de doctor w’ich you gits be a hoss doctor.”
“Whu’ fur you wants a hoss doctor?” asked the other in astonishment. “You ain’t no hoss. Chances is you ain’t got no hoss disease.”
“Nummine,” replied Gabe between gasps of agony, “you jest do lak I tells you. Ef I knowed whut ailed me ’twould be diffe’nt, but I ain’t knowin’.”
“Whut diffe’nce does dat make?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Gabe. “Ef a regulation doctor comes to see you he kin talk wid you. He kin ax you whar de pain is an’ whut you been eatin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ you kin tell him. But a hoss doctor he can’t talk wid his patients kaze de patients can’t talk back. He’s jest natchelly ’bleedged to know whut ails ’em.