“All right, Billy, I trust you. They are death on tea in the Old Country. And toast, Billy. What about toast?”
“Toast? Toast, eh? Well, all right, Doc. Toast it is. Trust yours truly. You keep her out a-viewin' the scenery for half an hour.”
“And Billy, a big pitcher of hot water. They can't live without hot water in the morning, those Old Country people.”
“Sure thing, Doc. A tub if you like.”
“No, a pitcher will do.”
At this point a long drawn whistle sounded through the still morning air.
“There she goes, Doc. She has struck the grade. Say, Doc—”
But his words fell upon empty space. The doctor had already disappeared.
“Say, he's a sprinter,” said Billy to himself. “He ain't takin' no chances on bein' late. Shouldn't be surprised if the Doc got there all right.”
He darted upstairs and looked around the ladies' parlor. The air was heavy with mingled odors of the bar and the kitchen. A spittoon occupied a prominent place in the center of the room. The tables were dusty, the furniture in confusion. The ladies' parlor was perfectly familiar to Billy, but this morning he viewed it with new eyes.