The purchaser of the morphia wanders into the fog, and at length, finds himself upon a little iron bridge, one of the score or more in the heart of the city, under which the small tortuous river flows. He leans on the rail and gasps, for here the mist has concentrated, lying like a foot-pad to garrote such of the Three Thousand as creep that way. The iron bridge guys rattle to the strain of his cough, a mocking phthisical rattle, seeming to say to him: “Clickety-clack! just a little rusty cold, sir—but not from our river. Litmus paper all along the banks and nothing but ozone. Clacket-y-clack!”
The Memphis man at last recovers sufficiently to be aware of another overcoated man ten feet away, leaning on the rail, and just coming out of a paroxysm. There is a freemasonry among the Three Thousand that does away with formalities and introductions. A cough is your card; a hemorrhage a letter of credit. The Memphis man, being nearer recovered, speaks first.
“Goodall. Memphis—pulmonary tuberculosis—guess last stages.” The Three Thousand economize on words. Words are breath and they need breath to write checks for the doctors.
“Hurd,” gasps the other. “Hurd; of T’leder. T’leder, Ah-hia. Catarrhal bronkeetis. Name’s Dennis, too—doctor says. Says I’ll live four weeks if I—take care of myself. Got your walking papers yet?”
“My doctor,” says Goodall of Memphis, a little boastingly, “gives me three months.”
“Oh,” remarks the man from Toledo, filling up great gaps in his conversation with wheezes, “damn the difference. What’s months! Expect to—cut mine down to one week—and die in a hack—a four wheeler, not a cough. Be considerable moanin’ of the bars when I put out to sea. I’ve patronized ’em pretty freely since I struck my—present gait. Say, Goodall of Memphis—if your doctor has set your pegs so close—why don’t you—get on a big spree and go—to the devil quick and easy—like I’m doing?”
“A spree,” says Goodall, as one who entertains a new idea, “I never did such a thing. I was thinking of another way, but—”
“Come on,” invites the Ohioan, “and have some drinks. I’ve been at it—for two days, but the inf—ernal stuff won’t bite like it used to. Goodall of Memphis, what’s your respiration?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Daily—temperature?”