The man hesitated.
"I don't want none of your money," he growled at last. "If you had to work for a living, you silk stocking—"
"Come, don't call me names. I am a fool, too. I am in the same boat. I'd give a good deal for a job, any job to earn my living. I didn't say it wasn't natural what you did, but it's against the facts, against the facts."
The man stared, took the quarter, and dived into a cross street.
"I have lost twenty cents by walking home," Sommers reported to Alves, "but
I have realized—a few facts."
The following day, as Sommers was passing the drug store, the clerk beckoned to him. A messenger had just come, asking for immediate help. A woman was very ill—third house north on Parkside Avenue.
"There's your chance," the clerk grinned. "They're rich and Jelly's people. He won't be back before two. Just show Dr. Sommers the way," he added, to the servant who had brought the message.
Sommers had his doubts about going, for Jelly was an "eclectic" and probably would refuse to consult with him. The matter seemed urgent, however, and he followed the servant. The case, he found on examination, was serious and at a critical stage. It was an affair of mismanaged confinement. Jelly, Sommers could see, was brutally ignorant. The woman, if she survived, would probably be an invalid for life. He did what he could and remained in the house, waiting for Jelly, who would be sure to come. About three the black-whiskered doctor arrived and hurried upstairs, his sallow face scowling. Sommers explained what he had done, and suggested that a certain operation was necessary at once to save matters at all. Jelly interrupted him.
"See here, young feller, this is my case, and you're not wanted, nor your advice. You can send your bill to me."
Sommers knew that he should bow and withdraw. Jelly was within his professional rights, but the man's brutal ignorance maddened him, and he spoke recklessly.