“Yes, son?”

“Your thyroid, sir. Did a remarkable basal. Pulse is down to 110. Lowest ... so far....”

“Fine! I’ll operate tomorrow if you advise. Drop around later and give her a final once-over. Be there in half an hour.”

“But Father, I’m hungry ... I missed....”

“All right. All right! You always were! Go get your supper. I don’t need you dancing attendance on me! Still know an operative patient when I see one. Don’t interrupt me! You talk too much! Always did! Goodnight, son!”

His gruff affection blacked out the illustration. Cub placed his right foot against the center drawer of his desk and began wondering what he wanted to eat. Shad roe? Lamb chops? Roast beef?

His telephone bell jangled sharply:

He propped open a recent copy of the New Yorker and read four passable cartoons, turned the page, then lifted the receiver.

Dr. Barton’s voice begged:

“Cub?”