A LAUGH A DAY
KEEPS THE
DOCTOR AWAY
§ 1 The Untraveled Stranger
Back in those sinful days which ended in January, 1919—that is, officially they ended then—a group of congenial spirits were gathered one Saturday night in a local life-saving station on the principal corner of a small Kentucky town, engaged in the quaint old pastime of pickling themselves.
In the midst of these proceedings the swinging doors were thrust asunder and there entered one of those self-sufficient, self-important persons who crave to tell their private affairs to others, and who, in those times, preferably chose as a proper recipient for their confidences, a barkeeper—as I believe the functionary was called.
The newcomer wedged his way into the congenial group of patrons, and apropos of nothing which up until then had been said or done, introduced himself to the notice of the company by stating in a loud clear voice:
“The doctor wants me to take a trip. I haven’t been feelin’ the best in the world and my wife got worried—you know how women are—and to-night she sent for the doctor. And he came over, a little while ago, and he asked me a lot of foolish questions and took my temperature and five dollars and then he says to me that I should rest up for a spell and travel ’round. He says I ought to go out to California and see the sights. Ain’t I been to California? I have—more’n half a dozen times. Ain’t I seen every sight there is in the whole state of California? I have. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind tellin’ you fellers that I’ve been everywhere and I’ve seen practically everything there is.”
At this a gentleman who was far overtaken in stimulant, slid the entire length of the bar, using his left elbow for a rudder. Anchoring himself alongside the stranger he hooked a practiced and accomplished instep on the brass rail to hold him upright and he focused a watery, wavering, bloodshot eye upon the countenance of the other and to him in husky tones he said: