Shawn went out and took down the slate which hung by the office door. "Old man Stivers has been writing on the slate," said Shawn.
"Huh," said Brad, "I reckun he 'cided to cum an' git you to cum out an' see his wife, now dat he done rin up a bill wid ole doc' Poleen, an' carn't git him to cum no mo'."
"Yes, Brad, it's strange—the man who loses sleep and health to save others has a hard time getting his pay. They look to the doctor mighty anxiously in the hour of trouble, and in the hour of suffering and death the doctor is a power of comfort."
"I see dat Bill Hugers scratchin' on de slate las' night," said Brad, "yo' hain' gwine to see him no mo', is yo', wid him owin' yo' a big bill?"
"Bill was one of my best friends when I made the race for the Legislature," said the doctor.
Brad scratched his head. He recalled the time when the doctor went to Frankfort as the representative of his county, and he remembered the scuffling he had to do during the doctor's absence—the yearning for many comforts which did not come. He recalled how the doctors picked up old Hissong's practice while he was away, and he had not forgotten the mean things they had said about him when he returned to be nursed through a spell of "too much liquor."
"Yo' hain' never gwine run no mo', is yo', doc?"
"I can't say, Brad."
"Brad, didn't you hear somebody holler outside? Go out and see who it is." Brad opened the door.
"Is the doc in thar?"