So the procession, led by the board-of-heath doctor and the sergeant, and brought up in the rear by the policemen with their protectively extended clubs, started through the doorway.
Whirling about on the threshold, at the imminent risk of having his skull cracked, Dag Daughtry called back:
“Doc! My dog! You know ’m.”
“I’ll get him for you,” Doctor Emory consented quickly. “What’s the address?”
“Room eight-seven, Clay street, the Bowhead Lodging House, you know the place, entrance just around the corner from the Bowhead Saloon. Have ’m sent out to me wherever they put me—will you?”
“Certainly I will,” said Doctor Emory, “and you’ve got a cockatoo, too?”
“You bet, Cocky! Send ’m both along, please, sir.”
* * * * *
“My!” said Miss Judson, that evening, at dinner with a certain young interne of St. Joseph’s Hospital. “That Doctor Emory is a wizard. No wonder he’s successful. Think of it! Two filthy lepers in our office to-day! One was a coon. And he knew what was the matter the moment he laid eyes on them. He’s a caution. When I tell you what he did to them with his cigar! And he was cute about it! He gave me the wink first. And they never dreamed what he was doing. He took his cigar and . . . ”